


The Lights That Lead Us There Are Blinding

by Eclaire-de-Lune (RoyalHeather)



Series: You're Gonna be the One That Saves Me [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Catholicism, Disabled Character, Espionage, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gun Violence, International Travel, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Past Relationship - Tucker/York, Politics, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-08-25 20:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 57,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16667656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalHeather/pseuds/Eclaire-de-Lune
Summary: What do you do when you're a white-collar single dad and your old college flame who you haven't talked to in years shows up in your apartment during the middle of the night, covered in blood and asking for your help in reuniting him with his work buddy who he's been stealing classified military information with?You go with him, of course.





	1. Los Angeles, Present Day

At 6:15 a.m., Tucker’s alarm goes off.

At 6:20 a.m., he gets up. He showers, brushes his teeth, and dresses himself (button-down, corduroy jacket, nice jeans). Sticks a pod in the Keurig and brews himself a cup of coffee, drinking it as he checks email and Twitter on his phone.

At 7:00 a.m. he wakes up Junior. Junior doesn’t want to be woken up, and it takes several minutes of persistent coaxing before he slides out of bed, yawning and rubbing his eyes. Tucker leaves Junior to get dressed (“And don’t get back into bed, I’ll know if you do”) and goes back into the kitchen to scramble some eggs.

At 7:27 a.m. Junior shuffles into the kitchen and eats his scrambled eggs in silence. Tucker checks his email again; they’re interviewing candidates for a social media intern, or would be if the current applicants would get back to him about scheduling an interview. Reaching over the counter, he steals scrambled eggs off Junior’s plate. “Dad!” protests Junior.

At 7:38 a.m. Junior grabs his backpack and heads out the door with a hasty, “Bye, Dad!” He has a minute to walk to the bus stop at the end of the block.

At 7:45 a.m. Tucker gets in his car and leaves for work. He sits through the usual morning traffic, honking at some dumbass in a red jeep who nearly clips his front bumper trying to switch lanes.

At 9:03 a.m. Tucker arrives at work. The morning passes in emails, and meetings, and a lot of time spent trying to put together the marketing strategy for the upcoming year, only some of which he wastes playing games on his phone. One candidate for intern finally gets back to him and he schedules the interview for this upcoming Friday.

At 12:15 p.m. he has lunch. Salad, chicken cobb. Joanne and Cory walk past his office with bags of In-n-Out, the smell of burgers and fries wafting over to Tucker. He stares longingly after them until he reminds himself of Dad clutching his chest and going gray, and dutifully stabs his fork into the salad again.

At 5:30 p.m. Tucker leaves work. More traffic. A lot more. There’s been yet another accident on the freeway. It’s only a fender bender and both parties are safely pulled off on the shoulder, yet everyone and their mother is slowing down to rubberneck. Tucker sighs heavily in frustration and cycles through radio stations, trying to find somewhere playing something good.

At 6:47 p.m. Tucker hurries into the restaurant, straightening out his jacket. Grinning, Caboose rises from the table, waving enthusiastically at him. “Hello, Tucker!”

“Hey, man, sorry I’m late.” Tucker smiles and hugs him, thumping his back, and then turns to the blonde woman who stands next to Caboose, dressed in gunmetal gray and a full foot shorter than him. “My name’s Lavernius Tucker, pleasure to meet you.”

She shakes his hand, diamond engagement ring gleaming on her finger, and lilts, “Sheila Scorpiones. It’s so nice to meet you! I have heard many good things about you from Michael!”

At 8:13 p.m. Tucker hugs Sheila and Caboose farewell (“I will invite you to the wedding!” promises Caboose) and drives home. When he walks through the front door, Junior is sitting on the couch, playing Fortnite. Tucker pauses to watch, his briefcase slung over his shoulder. “There’s ammo over there,” he points out.

“I know, Dad,” says Junior shortly, leaning forward with so much intent concentration he’s in danger of toppling off the couch.

“Did you have dinner?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d you have?”

“I dunno, pizza – hey, no fair! Fuck!” yells Junior, throwing his controller down as his character drops dead. “He cheated!”

“I’m not buying you another controller if you break that one,” warns Tucker, going to his bedroom and taking his shoes off. “And watch the language.”

“You watch your language,” mutters Junior.

“I heard that.”

 At 10:15 p.m., Tucker gets ready for bed. He changes into sweatpants, brushes his teeth, and spends at least five minutes inspecting his face for wrinkles in the mirror. Are those the beginnings of lines under his eyes, or is he just tired? Grimacing at himself, Tucker runs a hand over his jaw, over the coarse fuzz of his beard. God, he looks _just_ like Dad. The first time Mama saw him with the beard, she gasped and put a hand to her heart, tears in her eyes.

At 10:27 p.m., Tucker goes to bed. He spends a while on Tindr listlessly swiping through matches and staring at his messages without responding to anyone. There’s one guy, Dominic, who seems hot and DTF and normally Tucker would be all over that like peanut butter on jelly, but somehow he can’t muster the energy to continue the conversation. Sighing, Tucker puts his phone back on the nightstand and rolls over a couple of times and punches his pillow before settling into a comfortable position. In the dark room, he closes his eyes, and sighs again, and falls asleep.

He wakes up to the sound of someone moving in the front room.

Holding his breath, Tucker freezes, every nerve on edge. Maybe it’s just Junior, getting a drink –but then whoever it is stumbles and curses in a distinctly adult male voice.

Sliding out of bed, Tucker puts on his glasses, grabs the baseball bat from by his nightstand, and ghosts to the door. Jaw clenched, fingers flexing around the bat’s grip, he pauses to listen, pulse hammering in his throat. This motherfucker picked the wrong apartment to rob.

Tucker eases the door open and steps into the living room, acutely aware of Junior asleep in the other bedroom. A man stands silhouetted against the orange streetlamp glow from the window, staggering against the sofa. Hefting the bat up and ready, Tucker says in his most “take-no-shit” voice, “Freeze and hands up.”

The man goes still, one hand slowly raising. “Tucker,” says a hoarse, impossibly familiar voice. “It’s me.”

The bottom drops out of Tucker’s stomach. “ _York_?” he gasps, and lowers the bat to turn on the lamp instead.

As the light falls on him, York winces, squinting. Blood covers his face and hands and spatters the front of his jacket, his bad eye swollen shut, multiple cuts and abrasions breaking his skin. His left arm hangs limply at his side. “Hey, man,” rasps York, and attempts a grin that looks more like a grimace of pain.

“York, what the _fuck,”_ shout-whispers Tucker. “What happened –”

“Long story. Can I, uh, crash here tonight –” and he takes a step forward and his legs buckle under him.

Lunging forward, Tucker catches him before he hits the floor, arms around his torso. York grunts in pain, clutching at Tucker with his right arm. This close Tucker can see the split in his lip and the dried blood in his hair, the smears of blood half-wiped from his nose and mouth. “Easy, easy,” mutters Tucker, lowering him onto the couch –

York shouts in pain, clutching his side. “That’s a rib,” he gasps, collapsing onto the cushions. “Oh, Jesus.” Wincing, he lets Tucker maneuver him into lying down, eyes closed and breath coming in shallow bursts.

Junior’s door opens and he steps out, blinking sleepily. “Dad, what’s happening...?” When he sees York on the couch, his eyes widen.

Attempting a bloody grin, York waves at him. “Hey, kiddo.”

“Go back to bed,” orders Tucker.

“But, Dad –”

“ _Now.”_

Scowling, Junior retreats back into his room and shuts the door. York lets his head fall back onto the couch arm with a quiet groan of pain, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “He looks like you,” mutters York, eyes closed. “How old is he?”

“Almost ten.” Tucker leans over him, frowning. “York, what the hell happened to you?”

“Got beat up.”

“Yeah, no _shit._ ” Tucker assesses his injuries; his face is bad enough, but he really doesn’t like how York’s struggling to breathe, or how he’s keeping any weight off his left shoulder. “We gotta get you to a hospital –”

“No!” York’s eye snaps open and he bolts halfway to upright before collapsing back in pain. “No, I can’t, no hospital –”

“You have _broken ribs –_ ”

York grabs Tucker’s wrist, pulling him closer in, gray eye burning behind the blood. “No. Hospital.”

“All right, all right,” says Tucker soothingly, York’s grip sinking painfully into his skin. “No hospital. Can I call someone to help, then?”

York squints suspiciously. “Who?”

“Carolina. You remember her, right? Dr. Carolina Church, red hair, green eyes, Tex's sister –”

“Yeah, I remember her,” groans York, slumping back again and releasing Tucker. “Fine.”

Rubbing his wrist, Tucker reiterates, “Don’t move,” heading back to his bedroom. “Got it?”

“Won’t move a muscle,” promises York wheezily.

Shutting the bedroom door behind him, Tucker grabs his phone off the nightstand and dials Carolina. The phone rings and rings, and Tucker frowns, fingers tapping against the case as he paces.

She picks up. “Tucker?” says Carolina, voice thick with sleep. “What’s going on –”

In the background, Tucker hears muffled noises, Wash saying, “’Lina? What is it?”

“Can you come over to my place?” says Tucker. “Someone’s hurt.”

Voice suddenly sharp, Carolina says, “Who? Junior?”

“Nnnno.” Tucker takes a deep breath; he knew this would be the difficult part. “York.”

There is a long, ominous silence.

“No,” says Carolina at last. “Not happening.”

“Please, Carolina, he’s really hurt –”

“So take him to the hospital, then.”

“He won’t let me, I don’t want to fight him...” Tucker could probably drag him by force if he had to, but he has a feeling that wouldn’t go well for either of them. He hesitates, then says, “What would Tex want?”

Carolina sighs. “That’s a low blow, Lavernius Tucker,” she says quietly.

Guilt curls in his stomach. “I know.” Throat tight, he folds his arm over his chest, fingers tapping his bicep. Though he’s tempted to beg more, he knows that won’t do any good, so he keeps his mouth shut and waits.

“Fine,” says Carolina shortly, and Tucker exhales heavily in relief. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Is he in immediate danger? What happened to him?”

“He’s all beat up but I think the most serious thing is broken ribs, he’s having a hard time breathing,” says Tucker. From the other end of the phone come various shuffling and clattering noises. “And his shoulder might be dislocated. I don’t know exactly what happened.”

“Okay,” says Carolina, and then away from the phone, “Babe, can you get my sneakers?”

Distantly, Wash says, “Sure thing.”

“Thank you,” says Tucker, “I really appreciate it –”

“We’ll be there soon,” and Carolina hangs up.

That was about the best he could expect, to be honest. Sighing, Tucker puts his phone in his pocket and walks back out into the living room. York lays on the couch, eyes closed, the only movement the shallow rise and fall of his chest. As Tucker enters, he mumbles, “So what did she say?”

“She’s coming over, but she’s not happy about it.” Walking over, Tucker stops by the arm of the sofa, hand hovering next to York’s tangled hair. “You know she still blames you for Tex, right?”

“Mm.”

Dark blood is smeared over the brown faux leather of Tucker’s couch where York touched it, and yet again Tucker is glad he went for the easy-to-clean furniture. Crossing to the kitchen, Tucker gets an ice pack out of the freezer and wraps it in a paper towel, then dampens a hand towel and returns to York. “Here,” he says, holding them out to him.

Cracking his eye open, York considers them bemusedly. “What’s that for?”

“For your face.”

“Oh, right,” murmurs York, like he’d forgotten. Taking the ice pack, he holds it tentatively to his bruised eye.

Shit, Junior, Tucker thinks, and puts down the washcloth to hurry over to Junior’s door, where he’s almost certainly been listening this whole time. Tucker opens the door slowly at first so he doesn’t slam into him, and sure enough when Tucker enters the room Junior’s scrambling backwards on the floor, looking guilty. His lamp is on. “I wasn’t listening!”

“Sure you weren’t.” Closing the door behind him, Tucker sits down on Junior’s bed, sinking slightly into the racecar blanket.

 Junior demands, “Is that your old boyfriend?” as he climbs up onto the bed next to Tucker.

Sighing, Tucker rubs his forehead. “Yeah.”

“What happened to him?”

“I don’t know, I’m gonna figure out. You need to stay in your room, okay?”

Frowning, lower lip jutting out, Junior says, “Why?”

Tucker takes a moment to figure out how he wants to phrase this. “Because he might be dangerous,” he says quietly. “And not in a good way, like a superhero. Like a bad guy.”

Junior’s dark eyes are very, very wide, though more in awe than fear. “What kind of bad guy?”

“The kind that gets arrested and put in jail for a long time.” Cold dread sits heavy in Tucker’s stomach. Putting an arm around Junior’s shoulders, he gives him a little shake. “I need you to get some sleep, okay? You have school tomorrow.”

“I _gueeeeeess._ ” Junior’s skeptical tone is ruined by a huge yawn halfway through the word.

“Go to sleep, and I’ll tell you more tomorrow.”

“You’re just saying that,” mutters Junior, with a baleful look at Tucker, but he gets under the covers all the same under the stern raise of Tucker’s eyebrows.

Rising, Tucker goes to the door, pausing to say over his shoulder, “G’night, kiddo.”

“Night, Dad,” sighs Junior, like he’s rolling his eyes.

Kid is only ten years old and he’s already fucking sassy. Tucker closes the door and walks back over to York, who is carefully dabbing at his face with the damp cloth. Crimson blooms across it already. But York doesn’t look any less battered – if anything, the cuts and scrapes and bruises stand out more. Tucker swallows hard, wanting desperately to do more, but he figures it’s better to leave that to Carolina. Which speaking of, she should be here soon. “Hey,” rasps York. “You got any booze?”

“Yes, but you can’t have any.” Sitting down on a chair across from York, Tucker rests his elbows on his knees and says, “Seriously, dude. What the hell happened to you?”

Sighing, York wads the washcloth up in his fist. Bloody water drips through his fingers. “I can’t tell you that,” he says quietly.

Tucker was expecting that; what catches him by surprise is the surge of anger in his chest. “Why not?” he demands.

“It’s too dangerous –”

“Is it? Is it really? When the police or the CIA or whoever the hell you pissed off come knocking down my door looking for you, how the hell is me not knowing what’s going on going to help –”

“No one is going to come after you,” says York tiredly.

“You better be _damn_ sure of that.” Tucker’s voice shakes with fervor, and he points at Junior’s door. “Because that’s my kid in there, and if I think you being here is going to put him in danger I am going to kick you out, I don’t care if your ribs are broken –”

“Tucker,” says York, good eye fixed on him. “No one knows I’m here. You’re safe. I promise.” Each breath takes effort, but he looks at Tucker with sincerity so earnest it hurts. “I wouldn’t – I wouldn’t put you in danger. You or your son.”

Sighing, Tucker considers York; it’s hard to stay mad at him with how woefully beaten he is. “Okay,” says Tucker quietly. “But you have to tell me _something –_ ”

There’s a quiet knock at the door.

York freezes, attention fixed on the door. “That’s Carolina,” says Tucker, getting to his feet, but unease sneaks into his mind all the same. A vision of masked henchmen crowding his front porch comes to him, and he turns the porch light on before peering cautiously through the peephole. He can’t help sighing in relief when he sees the top of Carolina’s red head, and Wash standing behind her. Opening the door, he says, “Hey. Thanks for coming.”

“Yeah,” says Carolina, hefting her duffle bag higher up on her shoulder. She’s barefaced, dressed in jeans and a navy blue Johns Hopkins University sweatshirt, but she gives Tucker what might almost be a smile. “Where is he?”

Tucker steps back so she can enter the apartment. When she sees York, her expression grows hard and set. York is about to greet her when he sees Wash walk in and his whole face goes tight with alarm and he struggles to sit up. “No,” says York, pointing at Wash. “Not him. No Feds –”

“Relax,” says Wash, his hands in his jacket pockets. “I’m not going to arrest you.”

But York doesn’t seem to hear him, drawing back into the sofa even though it pushes on his injured arm. “No way, get him out of here –”

“Easy, easy,” says Tucker, hurrying over to hold York still and keep him from injuring himself further. “It’s just Wash.”

But York glares suspiciously at Wash over Tucker’s shoulder. “No Feds,” he repeats.

Holding his hands up, Wash sits down in an armchair. “I’m not here as an agent, I don’t even have my badge,” he says. “I’m just here with ‘Lina.”

Carolina, who is now kneeling on the floor by York, her bag unzipped next to her. She pulls on blue latex gloves with a snap, then turns to York, who looks suddenly apprehensive. “Hey, Carolina…” he says.

“Right, let’s take a look at you,” she says, crisply professional. “Tucker says you have broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder?”

“Sure feels like it,” groans York.

“Tucker, help me take his jacket off,” Carolina orders. “I need you to lift him, careful of that shoulder.”

They strip off his black leather jacket, revealing a white t-shirt underneath dappled with blood. In some places it’s so sodden it sticks to his skin. Taking out a pair of scissors, Carolina starts to cut through the fabric and peel it off York. Tucker drops the jacket and sits on the arm of the couch behind York’s head, and without really meaning to his hand moves under York’s neck, rubbing gently at wire-taught muscles. Groaning softly, either in pain or relief Tucker’s not sure, York lets his head fall back heavy into his hand.

From this spot, Tucker has a direct view of York’s chest, and it’s in about as good shape as his face. Tucker swallows hard against sudden queasiness as he stares down at the crusted blood and raw abrasions and flushed red welts and swellings. “Which side are the ribs on?” asks Carolina.

York points to his left side.

“All right. Tucker, I need your help, we’re going to put his shoulder back,” says Carolina briskly. “Help him sit up.”

“Fuck,” sighs York, and hisses in a breath as Tucker gradually eases him upright. “Ah – hah – _ow_ –”

Tucker keeps an arm around York’s waist to steady him, ignoring the blood smearing on his skin, and York leans into him, breathing shallow. He holds himself like he’s full of jagged glass and every movement hurts. Sitting behind York, Carolina examines his shoulder, blue plastic fingers probing deftly, and he winces. “Okay,” she says, bracing herself with one hand pressed flat to either side of his shoulder. “I’m going to fix your shoulder on three. One – two –” and she _pushes._

“Gah!” yells York, his head snapping forward, fingers digging into Tucker’s leg. Tucker tightens his arm around him, rubbing at his back, as York sucks in cut-off gasps, like he wants air but can’t breathe in deep enough.

“Easy, easy,” murmurs Tucker, his throat tight with nerves. It feels unreal like a nightmare: his familiar living room in the yellow lamplight, full of shabby but comfortable furniture, but York’s face creases in pain and blood covers Carolina’s blue latex gloves and Wash watches from his seat, dark eyes alert.

Using her wrist, Carolina pushes her bangs out of her face. “Wash, can you get me my stethoscope?”

Rising, he goes to her duffel bag and crouches to dig through it. At Carolina’s direction, York gingerly rotates so he’s sitting straight on the couch with his feet on the floor, leaving enough space for Carolina to sit next to him. Wash hands her the stethoscope, and she takes it with a muttered, “Thanks, babe,” fitting the eartips into her ears. Putting the bell to York’s back, she orders, “Breathe.”

He tries and stops short. “It hurts,” York explains tightly, bracing himself on his knees.

“I know,” says Carolina, merciless. “You need to breathe. Deeply, or you’ll end up with pneumonia eventually.” Closing his eyes, York breathes in slow and deep; his fists clench, and Tucker, standing awkwardly to the side, suddenly wants to take his hand. Memory hits him, from fourteen years ago, sitting in the back of Tex’s car and holding tight to York while he presses a bloody shirt to his eye.

Carolina listens for a little while, moving the stethoscope from spot to spot, and then puts it down to gently press at York’s left side. His hands knot together, face going determinedly blank, and then Carolina pushes in on one particular point and York cries out, teeth gritted. The sound of his pain nests behind Tucker’s ears, and he feels queasy.

Going to the kitchen, Tucker turns the sink on and rinses York’s blood off his hands. It colors the water orange, rusty streams running off his brown skin and hitting the polished chrome sink before sliding down the drain. Pumping liquid soap, Tucker scrubs his hands under the water, artificial Tropical Fresh scent hitting his nostrils. When all the suds are gone, he turns off the faucet, the apartment suddenly quieter without the sound of running water.

York gasps in pain, soft and ragged, and Tucker snaps his head up. From here he can Carolina’s messy copper ponytail and the curve of her shoulders under her navy sweatshirt. Head bowed, York has his elbows on his knees, his shoulderblades sharp under lean muscle.

“Okay,” sighs Carolina, drawing back. “One broken rib, maybe two, but it’s just hairline fractures so I’d count yourself lucky. I’d like to get you in for a CT scan and make sure there’s no internal bruising, but Tucker says you’re not letting that happen.”

“It wouldn’t be safe,” mutters York.

Sighing, Wash sits down on the opposite arm of the couch. “You know, hospitals aren’t under any obligation to report wanted persons to law enforcement –”

“It’s not just that,” snaps York. “Hospitals need records, they document things. They leave a paper trail.”

“York,” says Tucker slowly, walking over to sit on a chair facing him, “what are you doing that you don’t want a paper trail?”

York glares significantly at Wash.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” sighs Wash, shoving his hands in his pockets and getting to his feet. “I’ll go outside –”

Not looking away from cleaning a deep abrasion on York’s side, Carolina says, “No, you stay here.”

Wash stops halfway to the door, eyebrows raised; York still watches him like a hawk. Sighing again, Wash says quietly, “Look, I don’t know what trouble you’re in, but I promise that you can speak freely and in confidentiality. I won’t arrest you or turn you in. Who knows,” he continues mildly, with a shrug, “the FBI might even be able to help.”

“I doubt that,” says York dryly, wincing as Carolina dabs antiseptic along one of his open wounds.

Shrugging, Wash says, “You never know.”

Leaning forward, Tucker stares at York until he meets his gaze, one gray eye bright and wary. “Tell us,” insists Tucker, soft but firm. “We need to know. I – _I_ need to know.” He pauses, adds, “For old time’s sake.”

A breathless laugh huffs out of York before he cringes and puts a hand to his side. “Old time’s sake,” he murmurs. “You remember, back at BU, when Tex dared us to make out at that wrap party?”

Tucker remembers the burn of alcohol in his blood and the bass in his pulse and York grinning a challenge at him, insolent and movie-star handsome. “Yeah.”

“Felt like jumping off a cliff,” says York, so quietly Tucker can barely hear him, staring off into the middle distance. “I don’t think I’ve stopped falling since.”

The following silence is very loud. Extremely aware of his own warm cheeks, Tucker sneaks glances at Carolina and Wash. Neither react much, Carolina still focused on cleaning York’s wounds and taping up the worst of them, Wash seated again with his gaze intent on York. “I’m not really seeing the connection,” says Tucker, with a valiant effort at keeping his voice even.

Sighing, York reaches up to rub his face before he touches a scrape and jerks his hand away. “I was going to get my law degree,” he says. “Got a couple semesters into law school. But it wasn’t… I don’t know. I couldn’t force myself through it. Dropped out, ended up just traveling, doing this and that. Backpacked across Europe with Tex.” He shoots a furtive, guilty look at Carolina, but she remains expressionless. “Tried different jobs, nothing stuck. I just couldn’t… I dunno. It was easier to break things apart than play by their rules. Until I broke into – well, it doesn’t matter where. Somewhere I wasn’t supposed to.” A brief, shamefaced smile graces his face. “And I was stupid enough to get caught.”

Pieces click together in Tucker’s brain, and he stares at York in disbelief. “You went to _jail?_ ” Even the words feel wrong in his mouth, another piece of this strange twisted reality where golden frat boy York became a hunted criminal.

“Yeah. For, uhh, about six months. They let me out on parole when I got contacted by a private security firm. I thought they were gonna throw more charges at me, but they wanted to hire me instead. To break into things.”

“To test their security,” says Wash.

York nods. “I was doing that. I liked it. Then a few years ago I met D – Delta.” He nods at Carolina. “Your cousin.”

She pauses. “I didn’t know that,” Carolina says, voice carefully level. “But I don’t talk with Delta very often.”

Ducking his head, York examines his split knuckles. “We started working together. We make a good team. We did good work and got bigger and bigger contracts, big enough we could go freelance. Clients got bigger, and so did the stuff they were trying to protect. And we found…” He sighs heavily, looks up at Tucker with a flash of steel. “Tucker, we found reports and data that wasn’t right. That pointed to something too big and dark to be left alone. So we went to Russia, to get to the source. To verify what it was.”

Tucker knots his fingers together, chest drawing in so tight it’s hard to breathe. “And what is that?” asks Wash.

Swallowing hard, York looks to him, and his next words sound like a challenge. “A supersoldier program. Biologically and chemically enhancing people to fight harder, stronger, faster. Not just the body, but the mind. Starting with experiments on prisoners and the homeless.”

His words echo in the little apartment. Tucker stares at him in horror and disbelief, and he’s not the only one. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers.

Carolina looks pale, and Wash’s voice is hard as flint when he says, “Where was this happening? Russia?”

York nods. “We went to Moscow, to Novgorod, to Yekaterinburg…” His voice changes on the foreign syllables, slipping into a flawless Russian accent. “The real nasty stuff is happening up north, in Sitkyakh.” He turns a wry gaze on Wash. “What, you didn’t know about that with all your top-secret access?”

“Even with my security clearance, things are still need-to-know,” says Wash flatly. His frown bodes danger, probably for whatever Russian fuckheads are playing Frankenstein. “Then what?”

“Oh, we dug up as much as we could while hiding out in abandoned buildings and playing keep-away with people who were either FSB or Bratva, or both.” He shrugs. “Probably both.”

Tucker must look as confused as he feels, because Wash mutters, “FSB is the Russian equivalent of the FBI. Bratva is their mafia.”

“Oh.” Tucker rubs at his face; it must be nearly 1 a.m. and exhaustion weighs on his eyelids, but adrenaline and nerves keep the rest of his body on knife’s edge. “Holy _shit_ , York. And they’re still after you?”

“It’s not them I’m worried about right now,” says York.

Sighing, Carolina straightens, tossing a last bloody gauze pad into the trash bag, and starts peeling off her gloves. “I’d give you a sling for that arm but you’re not going to wear it,” she says. “You should shower off the rest of the blood, I’ve taped up the worst cuts. Be grateful you don’t need stitches.”

He nods, says, “What about my ribs?”

“Nothing I can do for those, they just have to heal.” She throws away her gloves too, her profile like a stamped metal coin. “Make sure you breathe deeply as much as possible. Take some ibuprofen, it’ll help. Put that ice pack on them.” Her voice goes brittle, almost scathing, at the end.

York doesn’t flinch away from her piercing gaze. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “I know you’re not happy about this.”

“Yeah.” Rising, she begins cleaning up the used medical supplies.

“But now what?” demands Tucker. “If you’re not on the run from the Russians –”

“So here’s the thing,” says York. “The facilities are Russian. The scientists are Russian, and the subjects, and the tools. But the money is American. And it's not all from private companies either.”

Wash curses softly. “So you followed it back to the States.”

“Mm.” York reaches for the damp washcloth Tucker had brought, starts to gingerly wipe at his face again. “That’s what we’ve been doing, me and D, for the past two years. Tracking the money. Getting as much hard information as we can. It’s been one hell of ride, but we’re finally ready to blow the lid on this story. We just needed to get to asylum first.”

Since two years ago. Since Tucker reached out to York on a whim and the morning after York told him, _If you see me on the news, don’t believe what they say about me._ “This is what you couldn’t tell me,” he says softly. “When you said you were saving the world…”

York smiles wearily. “Trying, at least.”

“Where were you going to seek asylum? Venezuela?” asks Wash. Carolina zips up her duffle bag and sits back on her heels, frowning at York.

“Iran,” sighs York. “Tehran. That’s where D’s flying right now. We were supposed to go together, but on our way to the airport, we got separated. He made it onto his flight, but me… well…” York gestures to his battered body ruefully. “They were Bratva, I think. Definitely Russian, at least.”

He said “were.” “What happened to them…?” Tucker asks, dreading the answer.

Forming a gun with his hand, York mimes a shot to Tucker’s face, his own expression deadly serious. “How many?” whispers Tucker.

“Three,” says York, flat and hard as ice. “I had to. They’d seen my face. And no, they weren’t my first.”

The yellow lamplight bores into Tucker’s eyes and he smells blood and harsh antiseptic and his head spins. Dropping his face into his hands, he closes his eyes and inhales slow and steady. “Okay,” he says faintly to himself. “Fuck.”

For a long while, no one speaks or moves. The only sound is the shifting of couch cushions as York readjusts his seat, holding the ice pack to his ribs. “So,” says Wash at last, and York immediately grows wary. “Now what?”

Sighing heavily, York says, “I need to rejoin D. Get on the first available flight –”

This night has been a nightmare and Tucker wants it to end. “You can’t go anywhere tonight,” he groans, rubbing at his face. “York. Look at you. Half an hour ago you could barely stand.”

“We need to go home.” Standing, Carolina hefts her bag over her shoulder. She hesitates, eyes like green enamel, and then asks, “Was Tex mixed up in all this?”

Sympathy twists York’s face. “No,” he says. “She - no. She was never involved in any of it.”

"Do you know where she is?"

She already knows the answer, and York knows she knows. "I don't."

Carolina’s eyebrows draw together dangerously. “So you went all the way to Siberia and back to dig up classified intel, but you can’t tell me where my sister is when you were the last person to ever see her –”

Closing his eyes with a pained expression, York says, “If she wants to be found, she’ll be found.” It sounds like a mantra.

“You don’t even know if she’s _alive!_ ” yells Carolina.

Wash, at her elbow, murmurs, “Come on, let’s go home,” and opens the door behind her. Cool night air flows into the apartment, a cricket chirping nearby, cars rushing past in the distance. After a long, furious look at York, Carolina turns, walking out without another word. “Call us if you need anything,” says Wash. "I'll... be in touch. I have questions," and then he’s gone too, the door closing after him.

“Fuck,” sighs York, leaning back into the couch. “Man, I know you said you didn’t want to give me a drink, but I could really, really use a beer… or something stronger…”

Standing and going to the kitchen and getting two beers from the fridge gives Tucker something to. Cracking them open, the aluminum cold under his fingers, he hands one to York and they clink them together in a halfhearted cheers. “Lite?” says York skeptically.

Lamely, Tucker says, “I’m trying to watch what I eat.”

“Oh, Tucker, what happened to you?” sighs York, with an amount of pity that Tucker feels is entirely unwarranted. Tipping his head back, he takes a long, long drink from the can before sighing and staring up at the ceiling. “I can stay here tonight, right?”

Tucker doesn’t have it in him to argue at this point, even if he wanted to. “Yeah.”

“Can I use your shower?”

“Yeah.”


	2. Los Angeles, Present Day

Tucker wakes up slowly, eyes gritty with sleep. Feeling heavy and slow, he reaches for his phone and – shit, he slept through his alarm. It’s 7:34 a.m.

He’s halfway out of bed when he remembers last night. Stumbling, Tucker grabs the first pair of pants that comes to hand – jeans. Voices come from the living room, York’s warm drawl and Junior’s bright inquisitive tones. Hastily pulling on his shirt and glasses, Tucker steps into the living room.

York, sprawled on the couch with one arm behind his head, his left eye swollen and brilliant purple, talks to Junior, still in his Iron Man PJs, perched on the coffee table and listening with rapt attention. “– and I see this shape in the water moving towards me, big and dark –”

“What are you telling him?” snaps Tucker, walking into the kitchen. Irritation he can’t explain prickles up and down his back; York can just waltz in like this, overturn his world overnight, and then tell Junior stories like he’s been just as much of an uncle as Wash…

York pulls up his T-shirt – borrowed from Tucker, along with his sweat pants – and points to the jagged scar on his stomach. “How I got this.”

“Hey, Junior, go get dressed, you’re gonna be late for school.” Tucker shoves a coffee pod into the Keurig, closes the lid with a little more force than necessary.

“But, _Dad –_ ”

“Now.”

Scowling, Junior slides off the table and goes into his room, slamming his door behind him. Tucker leans against the counter and folds his arms, the coffee maker burbling quietly. The bronze top of York’s head is just visible over the back of the couch, morning sunlight streaming in through the window. “Thought you said it was shrapnel,” says Tucker.

“Oh, did I?” says York carelessly.

“Yeah. You know, the last time we talked –”

“Yeah, I remember.” York groans, shifting on the couch. “Ow.”

Junior’s door flies open again and he stomps out, dressed and with his backpack on. “Hey,” says Tucker, frowning. “What’s with the attitude?”

Completely ignoring him, Junior marches out. The apartment rattles with the force of him shutting the door. In the echoing silence left behind, the coffee maker dings. Wrapping his hand around the ceramic mug, Tucker blows at his coffee to cool it, takes a sip.

“Is that coffee?” says York, pushing himself up to look over at the kitchen.

“Yeah.” Tucker takes another sip, letting the flavor swirl over his tongue. “Hazelnut cream. You’ll hate it.”

Sure enough, York makes a face, tongue sticking out in disgust. “You just don’t appreciate a good black coffee.”

“I appreciate drinking things that don’t make me want to die.”

Groaning, York stands, limping stiffly over to join Tucker, peering at the available coffee pods. Over the rim of his mug, Tucker eyes York. He’s cleaned up, no more vivid red blood, though violet bruises and maroon scrapes and cuts mark his olive skin, white surgical tape holding his skin together on his cheek. He holds the towel-wrapped ice pack to his ribs with one hand – his left hand. “You shouldn’t be using that arm,” says Tucker before he can stop himself.

York shrugs and winces. “What happened to you, man?” he says, picking through coffee pods, nose wrinkled.

“Huh?”

“The lite beer, and the salads in your fridge, and the whole…” York waves his free hand vaguely. “Dunno. You got all responsible. When was the last time you went out and did something fun?”

“Last night, I had dinner with Caboose and his fiancée,” retorts Tucker immediately.

“I said ‘fun,’ but I’ll take it,” sighs York, still digging through coffee pods. “And before that?”

“Uhh…” Tucker has to look back in his memories, and even then, nothing immediately comes to mind. “I dunno –”

Pod in hand, York points at him. “I’ll tell you when. Three months ago, you went to a bar for a couple of drinks with a date. Three _months_ ago, Tucker. Come on!”

It takes a second for Tucker’s brain to catch up to his ears. “How the hell did you know that?” he says.

“Oh, I’ve just been keeping an eye on things,” says York distantly, now tilting his head as he figures out the coffee maker. Tucker steps out of the way, arms folded, and decides not to help him. “You know, like your bank and credit card statements.”

“York, what the fuck?” splutters Tucker. “You can’t – you can’t just – what the _fuck?_ ”

York shrugs, unrepentant, and closes the lid on the coffee maker. The burbling of percolating coffee punctuates the kitchen again. “You said ‘things _,_ ’” accuses Tucker. “What else?”

Rubbing at his jaw, York leans gingerly against the counter. “You know,” he says, purposefully nonchalant. “Phone calls and texts, dating apps, emails… Work ones, too. You know you’re never getting that promotion, right? They’re just stringing you along because they know you’re this close to quitting.”

Tucker gapes at him, so blindingly angry he can barely think. “What the fuck?” he finally manages. “York, you can’t _do_ that –”

“I had to make sure you were safe,” he says steadily.

The coffee quietly bubbles. Dust motes dance in the sunbeam coming through the kitchen window, and the light gilds York’s rumpled hair and turns the dirty dishes in the sink into precious metal and pearl. “Safe?” says Tucker, and immediately his thoughts go to Junior. “Safe from who?”

“No, I had to make sure _I_ would be safe from _you_ ,” explains York slowly.

He looks straight at Tucker, gray eye steady and piercing under the shadow of his brow, a halo of sunlight framing his wounded face. His jaw is knife-sharp, the lines of his bones clear under his skin. York continues quietly, “I won’t take chances. I can’t. I needed to know that if I was in trouble, I could trust you, and…” He gestures wryly at his own battered body. “Good thing I can.”

“Jesus,” mutters Tucker, and takes a deep breath. He can’t keep looking at York, he’s furious at him and yet maintaining that anger in the face of his open sincerity and wounds is impossible, so Tucker turns away and takes his phone out of his pocket to check the time. It’s nearly eight. If he wants to get to work on time, he needs to leave now. Tucker stares his phone, at the 7:54 superimposed over Junior’s face, and finally kicks his sleep-deprived brain into making a decision. Fuck it. He’ll call in sick. He has all that PTO stored up anyway.

The coffee maker dings behind Tucker, and he hears York pick up the mug and slurp his coffee. “For the record,” Tucker says, “don’t ever fucking do that again.”  

York says casually, “Okay.”

Eyes narrowed, Tucker turns around. “ ‘Okay?’ Just like that?”

Shrugging, York says, “Look, in a few months I won’t need to one way or another, so…”

“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Fresh anger flares in Tucker, and he advances on an unmoving York. “You can’t just make these fucking ominous statements without explaining what the hell is –”

His phone vibrates in his pocket with an incoming call.

Grumbling, Tucker turns away again to fish his phone out. The call’s coming from a restricted number, and Tucker frowns and picks up. “Hello?”

“Hey, Tucker, this is Wash.” He too sounds carefully neutral and casual in a way that Tucker is really starting to hate. “Is York there?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Can I talk to him?”

“Hey,” says Tucker to York. “Wash wants to talk to you.”

York freezes mid-sip, his expression closing like metal shutters on a department store. “Why?” he says slowly.

Bringing the phone back to his ear, Tucker relays, “He wants to know why.”

“We can work with him to help him,” says Wash. “But I need to talk to him.”

Sighing, Tucker holds the phone out to York. “He says the FBI can work with you –”

“No,” says York immediately. “No, no way –”

“York, come on –”

“Not fucking happening –”

Suddenly fed up, Tucker snaps, “Take the damn phone, York!”

They glare at each other from across the kitchen. Despite the steely glint in York’s eye, Tucker squares his shoulders, his grip on the phone unwavering. York might be a son of a bitch, but he’s never had to out-stubborn a two-year-old.

Arms folded, York grinds his jaw, and finally sighs heavily. “Fine,” he bites off, snatching the phone from Tucker and holding it between his shoulder and ear. “Yeah?”

Tucker can just hear the sound of Wash talking, but can’t make out any of the words. “Yes,” says York, clipped.

As Wash continues speaking, York’s expression goes smooth and blank as stone. With a sudden jerk he pulls away from the counter, walking towards Tucker’s room with his coffee in hand. “On what conditions?” he asks flatly, entering the bedroom, and shuts the door behind him.

Grumbling to himself, Tucker finishes his own coffee and puts the empty mug in the sink. Wandering over to the living room, he checks the sofa for bloodstains. It’s clean, at least. York’s big black backpack leans against it. Tucker throws himself into one of the chairs and pulls out his phone to email his boss and HR that he’s not going to be coming in today. All he can hear from his room is York’s baritone murmur.

Maybe ten, fifteen minutes pass. Tucker mostly just scrolls through Twitter and refuses to mentally speculate about the conversation Wash and York are having. When the door finally opens, he makes a point of not looking up from his phone. “So?” he says.

York pauses. “So what?”

Now Tucker does look up. York stands next to him, hands in his sweatpants pockets and a slight frown knitting his eyebrows together. “So what did you two decide?”

Clearing his throat, York says, “I can’t really tell you that.”

“Jesus,” mutters Tucker, looking back down at his phone. He wants to grab York and shake him until he spills everything and leaves it on the floor. He wants to sit him down and dab gently at his wounds with a damp washcloth. He wants to maybe, possibly, kiss him. “So I guess that means you’re working with him, huh.”

“Loosely,” says York, with a scowl. “We’ll see.”

“What did he even say to you to get you to cooperate, anyway?”

York doesn’t answer.

As the morning progresses, York gets progressively antsier. He can’t seem to stay still, standing and then sitting and flipping through TV channels. Tucker goes out to the gym and by the time he’s home and showered York is pacing the living room, fiddling with something in his pocket and checking his laptop every five minutes. “Dude,” says Tucker. “Stop. You’re driving me up the wall.”

York glowers at him and keeps pacing.

“No, seriously.” Going to the kitchen, Tucker gets orange juice out of the fridge and pours himself a glass, watching York. “What’s the problem?”

Fingers twitching, York looks away from Tucker. Tension pulls his back and shoulders wire-taut. “D should have contacted me by now,” he says suddenly. “His flight landed in Tehran over two hours ago. He should have let me know he’s landed.”  

“Oh.” Tucker gulps down orange juice. “Maybe it’s not safe for him to do that?”

York gives him an odd look.

“You know, like he’s being followed or watched or something,” says Tucker, feeling slightly silly. “So he can’t really contact you yet –”

“That’s not how it works,” mutters York, irritated, pacing away again.

“Well, excuse me for not knowing how things go in your super spy world.” Tucker rolls his eyes. “Want to go get sandwiches?”

York’s headshake is more of  a curt twitch. “I’m not hungry.”

“A’ight.”

By the time Tucker returns with two ham-and-cheese subs he’s half-expecting York to have torn down the curtains or started a fire or something. But no, he’s still just pacing, though now he’s chewing on his thumb while his other hand messes with whatever’s in his pocket. “I got two sandwiches anyway,” says Tucker. “Just in case you want one.”

“Mm.”

Setting down the plastic bag on the kitchen table, Tucker unwraps his own sandwich and starts digging in. He’s halfway through when York throws himself into the chair opposite him and attacks his own sandwich like he has a vendetta against it. Pausing, Tucker frowns at him. “Dude, when’s the last time you ate?” The sharp points of York’s cheeks and collarbone suddenly take on new meaning.

York shrugs and says between two messy mouthfuls, “Dunno.”

Swallowing hard, Tucker puts down his sandwich. It’s not right, he wants to wail. This isn’t how you were. This isn’t who you were supposed to become.

“Don’t look at me like that,” mutters York, mayonnaise smeared on his lower lip, lettuce scattered on the sandwich paper in front of him.

Tucker blinks back moisture rapidly. “Like what?”

“Like I’m a fucking abandoned puppy or something –”

His phone in his pocket buzzes and York straight-up drops his sandwich on the table to get it. As he reads whatever the message is, though, the color drains out from his face, his wounds standing out livid purple and red against his pasty skin.

Heart sinking, Tucker asks cautiously, “What is it?”

“It’s…” York clears his throat and puts his phone down on the table with one shaking hand, the other rubbing at his mouth. “I. I got an email, from D. Well. Not _from_ him.”

“Oh,” says Tucker, and waits for York to explain more. But he doesn’t, just stares down at his phone like it’s his own death. “What about…?”

Screwing up his face, York pushes the heel of his hand into his forehead. “It’s an automated email,” he says with a gasp. “From a website he set up. Every day D has to give it a command to stop it from sending to me. The only reason I would get this email is – is –”

“Is if he can’t do that,” says Tucker quietly, comprehending.

“And if he can’t, that means he’s in trouble.” York looks up at Tucker, his eye red-rimmed and burning, and stabs the screen of his phone with his finger. “ _This_ is the priority. If we get separated. This is the best way we have of knowing the other person’s in trouble. If he can’t –” York stops and chokes, chest heaving. “He’s not okay,” he forces out. “D’s not okay. I need to get to him.”

And he launches himself out of his chair so quickly he knocks it over, racing towards his laptop. Tucker crams the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth and follows. Seated on the couch, York hunches over his laptop, typing furiously. He doesn’t even react when Tucker draws up behind him, looking over his shoulder at the screen. There’s a few different windows open and Tucker thinks one of them is console commands, but beyond that Tucker has no clue what York’s doing. “I know he got to Zurich,” mutters York. “He’s at least that far…”

Leaning on the back of the couch, Tucker watches as York does… whatever he’s doing. If it’s hacking, it’s not nearly as Matrix-y as the movies make it look. Just a lot of text. Several minutes pass, and though Tucker wants to ask what York’s doing, he knows better than to distract him –

“Shit!” York slams his open palm on the coffee table, making Tucker jump. “Fuck!”

“What?”

“He never got on his flight to Tehran.” York stares at the computer screen like he can read the universe in it. “He wasn’t on it. He never left Zurich.”

“Not by plane, at least,” mutters Tucker.

York stares up at him, wide-eyed. “Tucker,” he whispers, a plea for help.

Tucker moves without thinking, walking around the couch to sink onto it beside York, a hand on the back of his neck. “Hey,” he breathes, touching his forehead to York’s, and York closes his eye and groans. “Focus. You’ll be okay, both of you. You’ll get through this.”

“We’ll get through it,” repeats York, leaning into Tucker. Despite everything, he’s so warm.

“Yeah,” promises Tucker, and rubs his neck. There’s a scar there Tucker doesn’t recognize, tissue knotted in a vertical line. When he kneads his fingers along it, York trembles.

York lets out one shaky breath, and then another, and then a third. Sliding his arm around York’s shoulders, Tucker presses his cheek to York’s forehead and rubs at his arm. For a moment the world slants and Tucker is simultaneously in his college dorm and here in the apartment, fourteen years ago, two years ago, now, holding York close like they never left each other, and yet the scars on his body tell such a different story. Tucker swallows hard, York’s hair tickling his nose, smelling faintly of Tucker’s shampoo.

“Okay.” York pulls away suddenly, wiping at his eyes and clearing his throat fiercely. “All right.” And he glares back down at the laptop, typing again. “I’m finding him,” he mutters. “And if he's hurt, so help me God…”

The fervent menace in his voice makes the hairs on the back of Tucker’s neck stand up. I’ve never heard York talk like that, he thinks. What’s happened to him, that he can sound like that?

What kind of person is Delta, that York talks like that about him?

\--

Wash shows up in the afternoon, dressed in suit and tie. When Tucker lets him in, he stops just inside the doorway, him and York sizing each other up. “Tucker tells me there’s been a development,” says Wash.

“You could say that.” York’s expression and tone are closed off, guarded. “D's missing.”

Blinking, Wash tilts his head. “All right,” he says flatly. “Walk me through it.”

With a sigh, York starts to rub at his face before wincing and jerking his hand away from the cut on his cheek; there are dark circles under his eyes. “After D’s flight landed in Tehran I never received confirmation from him that he was safe,” York recites. “Then at noon I received an email indicating D was in some way incapacitated, in trouble, or otherwise unable to reach out to me. Checking the airline flight records confirmed he never made it onto the Tehran flight at all. Security cameras in the airport show him entering a men’s bathroom.”

Frowning, Wash steps around to look at the computer screen. Tucker stays over on the other side of the room; he’s seen this already. Delta, a tall, skinny, dark-haired guy with glasses and a backpack, enters the bathroom. Then almost immediately two guys in maintenance overalls roll up with a yellow cleaning cart; one is built like a brick shithouse and the other is kind of weaselly. They push the cart into the bathroom and block the entrance with a sign that says “CLOSED FOR CLEANING.” Then about five minutes later, they leave with the cart.

Wash’s frown deepens, carving lines in his face. “You think he’s in the cart?” he says quietly.

York nods once. He could be carved out of bronze. “The camera never sees him leave.”

“Jesus,” sighs Wash, his hands in his pockets. “Then what?”

“Then they go out back and load into a plain white van. I can’t see the license plate, there’s reflective tape over it. They leave the airport, heading towards the German border.”

"Are they going into Germany?"

 “Maybe.” York shrugs. It’s meant to look casual, but Tucker sees the boiling frustration underneath in his clenched jaw and knotted fingers. “I haven’t found the van on any of the border checkpoints in that area. They probably ditched it the first chance they got, anyway.”

“What about Delta’s phone?”

“Switched off, if it’s even still on him.”

“All right, what about…”

Animosity forgotten, York and Wash lean over the laptop together, speech rapidly descending into terms of the trade that Tucker only half-knows what they mean. He does a little pacing of his own, pausing to look through the window at the rows of apartment buildings across the street. “Hey, guys?” he says, an idea coming to him. “What social media have you checked?”

York and Wash look at each other, and then at Tucker. “None?” says York, like it’s obvious. “What, you think the abductors posted a selfie on Instagram? Hashtag ‘Another successful kidnapping!’”

“If you think it’s stupid, say so,” snaps Tucker.

“It’s stupid,” says Wash.

Flipping him off, Tucker flops down into an armchair. Soon York and Wash are buried deep in their discussion again; they don’t even glance up at Tucker. Fine. They can be that way. Tucker sinks deeper into the chair, pulls his phone out, and starts searching.

Twenty minutes later, he stands and holds his phone out in between York and Wash, and the laptop screen. “Zurich police twitter,” Tucker says. “A car was reported stolen outside of the airport about half an hour after those two guys left. Grey 2018 Saab, French plates ET-623-AP.” York and Wash stare up at him, looking slightly stunned. “Bet if you call the local towing companies somebody’s picked up an unmarked white van.” Tucker puts his phone back in his pocket, goes to get his keys and jacket. “I’m picking up Junior from basketball practice. See you guys later.”

\--

“Uncle Wash!” yells Junior as he and Tucker enter the apartment, and runs right to him. Wash smiles with the smile he only has for Junior, the one that makes his dark eyes crinkle and a glow warm his face. Tucker likes that smile, a lot. An awful lot.

Junior climbs up onto the couch arm, peering over Wash’s shoulder at York’s laptop. “Are you guys doing _spy_ stuff?” he says in awe.

“Yeah,” chuckles York. “C’mere, look at this.”

Enthralled, Junior clambers along the back of the couch and slides in between York and Wash to stare at the computer screen. As York explains what they’re currently doing – checking traffic cameras for the grey Saab, which has apparently been speeding through France – Junior’s eyes get wide. “Don’t tempt him into a life of crime,” warns Tucker, only half-joking.

Wash snorts. “I’ll keep York in line, don’t worry.”

By the time Carolina arrives with Mexican food for everyone (“I love you,” says Wash, and she kisses him on the lips, prompting an "Ewww!" from Junior), they have an approximate location. “Paris,” says Wash, unwrapping the foil from his burrito. “We’re going to need more time and resources than we currently have to pin them down further, but at least –”

“I’m going there,” announces York.

Everyone pauses to look at him. Tucker, sitting on the floor with Junior, swallows down a bite of taco salad and says, “When?”

Standing, York starts pacing again, snapping his fingers nervously. “First flight that’s available. I can’t do anything more here, I need to be there. I need to be on the ground.” Grabbing his burrito off the table, he bites into it without really looking at it. “I need to be in the city.”

Wash sighs and rubs at his face. “All right, but I’m going with you.”

“What?” says York immediately, wheeling around. “Why?”

“Because you have information about one of the biggest national security threats of the decade and my boss will straight-up murder me if I let that get away from me.” Wash looks wryly up at York, his elbows resting on his knees. “Besides, having an actual federal agent with you might come in handy.”

Grimacing, York starts pacing again, stalking behind Tucker and Junior like a caged tiger. “You’re not saying no,” Wash observes.

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” snaps York. “You’ve got my balls in a vice.”

Leaning into Tucker, Junior whispers, “What does Uncle Wash have on York?”

“I don’t know,” mutters Tucker, spearing more lettuce on his fork and staring up at his former boyfriend. York continues his circuit around the room, neck and shoulders rigid.

As he passes Carolina, who’s sitting on the couch arm next to Wash, she frowns and rests her chin on her interlaced fingers. “How much danger is Delta in, York?”

That stops him short. “I don’t know,” he admits, voice low. Tucker can’t see his face, just the back of his head. “They need him alive. I know that.”

“Why?” asks Carolina, sharp. Her bright hair is pulled back in a bun, leaving the planes of her face stark and beautiful, and the rolled-up sleeves of her purple shirt expose taut forearms and bony wrists.

“Because the flash drive with all the information on it can only be unlocked by both our voices, speaking the password,” says York. “And after one wrong attempt it self-destructs.”

Wash whistles, low. “Tell me you have a backup copy somewhere.”

“I do, and I’m not telling you where.” York glares at Wash. “Not if you pulled a gun on me.”

“All right,” sighs Carolina, sitting up straight and brushing off her thighs. “I’m coming as well.”

York’s eye widens, his expression softening. “Thank you,” he says, quiet and sincere. “I know it’s difficult –”

“I’m not doing it for you.” Carolina lifts her jaw, eyes hard. “I’m going for my cousin. And because Wash needs someone to watch his back. This has nothing to do with _you._ ”

Hurt flashes across York’s face. Chewing slowly, Tucker looks from York to Carolina, and a pang hits his own heart, for both of them, but for missing Tex as well. He can almost see the hole she left behind, in between York and Carolina. Junior, having finished his quesadilla, sneaks over to the coffee table to steal Wash’s tortilla chips.

“All right,” says York, hoarse, and turns away again. “I’ll look for flights.”

\--

Tucker exits the bathroom and finds himself face-to-face with York, leaning on the opposite wall with his arms folded over his chest and a hesitant expression. “Um,” says Tucker, stopping short. “Hi.”

He has a brief vision of York grabbing his face and kissing him, but the space between them stays unbroken. “Are you coming?” says York.

Tucker dries his hands on his jeans to buy time. “To Paris?”

“Yeah.” York fixes his gaze on him, hopeful to the point of pleading. “There’s room for one more person on the flight.”

Sighing, Tucker puts his hands in his pockets, carefully not meeting York’s eye. He knew this was coming. He knew it. Stomach sinking, he says, “I can’t, I’ve got work, I’ve got Junior –”

“Please,” says York. “I need you.”

Tucker stares at him. The mask that he only now realizes York has been wearing since last night is gone, leaving nothing but painful sincerity on York’s face. “Wash and Carolina, they’re good people, but they don’t see me like you do. You’re the only one left who does.” York’s voice breaks; the ghost of Tex hovers between them. “Please.”

“I…” Tucker’s heart aches, and without thinking he reaches for York. “Dude, come here…”

York goes straight into his arms and Tucker holds him close, careful of broken ribs. “We’ll get him back,” says Tucker, stroking his rough hair. When he presses his face to York’s neck, he smells faint sweat and musk. “We will.”

“If they hurt him,” gasps York, shaking, and his grip on Tucker tightens painfully. “If they hurt a hair on his head, I swear to God, Tucker, I’ll rip them apart –”

“Shh,” says Tucker, ignoring a weird stab of jealousy and why he’s promising to rescue a man he’s never met.  “It’s okay.”

An animal sound rips out of York, wordless fear and anger. Tucker just holds onto him, rubbing at the back of his neck every so often. Shuddering, York presses his face into Tucker’s shoulder. “Come with me,” he groans. “Please.”

And that’s when Tucker knows he’s lost the battle. Because he might be able to say no to York, but not like this, when his heart is laid out bleeding and bare and he clings to Tucker like he’s the only port in a storm. “All right,” says Tucker. “I’ll go. But –”

“ _Thank you,_ ” breathes York, “thank you –”

“– you gotta give me a little time, dude, I gotta take care of Junior –”

Pulling back, York puts his hands on Tucker’s shoulders. “Two days,” he says quietly. “That’s the longest I can wait.”

Tucker nods and swallows hard. “How much is the ticket?” It’s going to be tight, he knows, but that’s what savings are for. Emergencies.

With a shake of his head, York says, “Don’t worry about it.”

“York –”

“I said, don’t worry about it.”

“You can barely keep yourself fed but you can afford plane tickets to Paris?” says Tucker, frowning.

A small, weary smile tugs at the corners of York’s mouth. “It’s not about the money, man.”

“Yeah? Then what is it?”

York opens his mouth and frowns, searching for words. His hands drift down to curl around Tucker’s biceps. “If there’s anything,” he says quietly, “that you want from me…”

Confused, Tucker blinks at him, and then York’s meaning hits him like a train wreck. “Oh, God – York, no,” he says. “You don’t – you don’t have to –”

His expression closes and York draws back slightly. “I thought you would be interested, given our last encounter,” he says stiffly.

It’s late and Junior’s asleep in the other room and it’s been a very, very long day and Tucker doesn’t know how he feels about anything. “No – that’s – that’s not what I mean,” he says, putting a hand on York’s chest. “Just. You don’t have to fuck me because you think you owe me. Okay?”

A brief smile ghosts across York’s face. “Okay.”

“Now go the fuck to sleep, or I’ll sic Junior on you at six a.m. tomorrow.”

“All right.” York turns to walk back into the living room but pauses on the hallway threshold, one hand on the wall, the living room lamplight tracing the side of his face in yellow light. “Good night, Tucker,” he says quietly.

The soft ache in Tucker’s chest reaches up into his throat, trapping his breath. “Good night.”  


	3. Los Angeles - International Airspace - Paris, Present Day

“Okay,” says Tucker under his breath, scanning gate numbers. B34, B36, B38… “You got your boarding pass?” 

Junior nods, staring wide-eyed at the bustle of LAX around him. The wheels of his rolling suitcase go clack-clack-clack on the linoleum floor as he drags it behind him, his other hand clutching his boarding pass and Iron Man action figure to his chest. When one of the airline staff comes over to talk to them, her hair silky-smooth and her teeth blinding white, Junior regards her suspiciously. “Have you ever flown on a plane before?” she says to Junior, bending down with her hands on her knees. “Are you excited?” 

“ _No_.”  

“He’s just nervous,” Tucker explains. “Junior, you gotta be nice to the flight attendants, okay? They’re here to help you out.” The flight attendant – her nametag says Elizabeth – smiles encouragingly at Junior.  

It takes a little convincing, but eventually Junior seems less apprehensive about flying. And then they start calling boarding for flight SW 756, LAX to Detroit, and Tucker crouches so he’s on eye level with Junior, putting his hands on Junior’s shoulders. “Hey,” he says. “You okay, little man?”  

Junior nods, dark eyes round, lips pressed together in such a serious expression for such a young face. “Grandma’s going to be waiting for you at the airport,” Tucker continues. “Give her a big hug for me, all right?”  

“Dad?” says Junior. “Are you going to be okay?” 

The glass and steel windows and the rows of chairs and the travelers everywhere disappear as the world narrows down to Junior and the worry on his face. “Yeah,” says Tucker softly. “Yeah, bud, I’m gonna be fine…”  

“Because Aunt Carolina said you could be doing something dangerous.”  

This is a dad moment, thinks Tucker. Do it right. “A little, yeah. But Iron Man always does dangerous things, and he’s fine, right?”  

“But Dad, Iron Man is a superhero.”  

“And I’m not?” says Tucker, so offended. “I’m your dad, that’s the most important superpower of all.”  

Junior giggles. “That’s not a power.”  

“Yes, it is.” Cupping the back of Junior’s head, Tucker kisses him on the head, his close-shaved hair a coarse fuzz. “Now come on, time to get on the plane.”  

He walks Junior over to waiting Elizabeth, who beams down at Junior. “Ready to go?” 

With his suitcase handle in one hand and Iron Man and his boarding pass in the other, Junior turns and looks back at Tucker. Managing a cheery smile despite the sudden anxious weight in his gut, Tucker waves to him. “Bye, bud. I’ll see you soon, okay?”  

Junior nods solemnly. “Okay.” And he turns around and walks with Elizabeth, joining the line of travelers boarding the plane.  

Shoving his hands in his jeans pockets, Tucker watches Junior until he disappears into the gate tunnel. He’ll be fine, he tells himself. Way more fine than you will be.  

Hefting his backpack up over his shoulder, Tucker turns and heads back through the airport, to the international terminal and the gate where Wash and Carolina and York and his own flight are waiting for him. 

\-- 

The last time Tucker flew outside of the States, it was to study abroad in Buenos Aires, and that was over a decade ago. He’d forgotten just how brutal these long flights are. 

His one saving grace is he has an aisle seat, which he had to rock-paper-scissors York for. Wash and Carolina have the two seats in the window row, and then Tucker across the aisle from them with York on his other side, and then more seats, another aisle, more seats…  

Currently York is asleep, curled up with his knees pressing into the seat back in front of him and his head lolling to the side. Tucker envies him desperately. They’re five hours into an eleven-hour flight and it feels like there’s an entire anthill under Tucker’s skin. Watching movies hasn’t helped. Pacing up and down the aisle made the flight attendants, who are already side-eyeing York and his bruises, nervous. Taking a piss relieves some of the tension, but not much. Sighing, Tucker returns to his seat, shifting restlessly in his seat to find a position where hard plastic isn’t digging into him. After several minutes of futility he gives up and starts yet another movie.  _Avatar_ , which is a dumb film, but at least it’s pretty and the blue alien chick is kind of hot.  

By the time the end credits roll Tucker is yawning, his eyes tired, and he’s thinking maybe, just maybe he can sleep. Twisting around, he covers as much of himself as possible with the cheap airplane blanket, leans his head back, and closes his eyes.  

Tucker dozes in fits, jerking awake every so often before changing position and attempting to sleep again. At some point he manages unconsciousness, because he wakes up hearing Wash say, “…already were, to be honest.”  

“Yeah?” says Carolina. Both of them speak in low voices that Tucker can barely hear them over the plane’s engines. 

“I keep thinking about what if something happens to one of us, while we’re abroad, or we get separated and there’s no, you know, legal connection…”  

“I know,” she sighs.  

“If nothing else, you could have gone through security with me.”  

Carolina snorts. “I am not marrying you so I can get TSA precheck.”  

Eyes closed, Tucker lies still, pretending to be asleep while his mind races. How long have they been talking about this? Why didn’t he know? Has there been a proposal yet? 

“Why are you marrying me? My fantastic good looks?”  

“No, it’s for your vast wealth,” Carolina laughs. “Be careful about how you write your will.”  

Wash chuckles with her, and they both subside into silence. Tucker considers waking up – the chair is digging into his spine – when Wash continues quietly, “You haven’t actually said yes, though.”  

“You haven’t officially asked, either.”  

“Don’t tell me you’re waiting for a big fancy proposal,” says Wash dryly. “Is that what you want? A hundred roses and a surprise choir and a ring that costs my salary for a year?”  

“God, no,” mutters Carolina in disgust.  

“I didn’t think so.” Wash pauses, asks, “Then what are you waiting for?”  

Carolina sighs again; Tucker hears her shifting in her seat. “The right time –” 

“You’ve been saying that for months,” groans Wash. “Carolina, we’ve been living together for years, when  _is_  the right time –” 

“I don’t know –” 

“There is no right time, there’s never going to  _be_  a right time, there’s just now –” 

“You have to understand about my dad,” she cuts in. “We didn’t grow up with a healthy view of love and marriage. The way he idolized Mom…”  

Tucker realizes he’s holding his breath and tries to exhale slowly and not-suspiciously. A strange loneliness has formed under his collarbone, like scrolling through social media and seeing photos of his friends at a party he wasn’t invited to.  

“You can’t let his mistakes define your future,” says Wash softly. 

“I know.” Metal runs through Carolina’s voice. “Do you think I want to? I hate this. I hate that I still think like this. But it’s part of me, and I can’t just turn it off.”  

Cracking his eyes open, Tucker peers through his eyelashes at the two of them. Carolina has her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around her shins, and her head turned towards Wash, who leans against his armrest with his eyebrows drawn together in sympathy. “I don’t expect you to,” he says. “But I can’t – I need some kind of answer, eventually.” 

“And if you get one you don’t like? What happens then?”  

For a long, long moment, Wash looks at her, a faint sadness in his eyes. “I don’t know,” he admits at last. 

Carolina nods. “All right,” she says, very softly. 

After a little while, they turn away from each other, Carolina putting earbuds in. Tucker opens his eyes slowly, stretches in his seat, and turns around to see York awake and alert, watching. “Did you hear all that?” Tucker mouths, pointing surreptitiously back at Wash and Carolina.  

“Yeah,” says York hoarsely, and rubs at his jaw. “Yeah.”  

\-- 

Tucker rolls over in bed, the mattress springs creaking. Beside Tucker, York winces as the movement jostles him. “Can you stop?” he says, eyes closed. 

“Sorry,” mutters Tucker, and checks his phone. Nearly two a.m., and he’s wide awake despite being so tired his bones hurt. Throwing an arm over his eyes, he sighs heavily, listening to the occasional car or scooter going by outside. Their hotel in Paris didn’t have any rooms with double beds available, so Wash and Carolina took one room and here’s York and Tucker in the other, sharing a bed. This is fine. It’s normal. 

Apparently York’s having trouble sleeping too, because after a few minutes he says, “Hey, can I ask you something?” 

Tucker has already resigned himself to a sleepless night. “Sure, what?”  

“You never did say what was up with all the salads and the lite beer and the ‘I can’t, I have work –’” 

“Seriously?” Tucker looks over at York, a dark shape beside him. “That’s what’s on your mind?” 

York shrugs. “I never got an answer.”  

He’s never going to let this go. Sighing, Tucker stares up at the ceiling, and says, “My dad died from a heart attack when I was thirteen, you know that.”  

“Yeah,” says York softly.  

“I’m not letting that happen to Junior. He deserves the best dad I can be.” Tucker clears his throat, blinking up at the ceiling. “Like, I don’t have a 401k, I have his college fund. It’s all for him.”  

For a long while, York lies still, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “He’s lucky to have you,” he says at last. 

“I hope so.”  

A car rushes by outside. Tucker turns over again, tries to beat some fluff into his limp pillow. His eyelids drag down, but his thoughts keep chasing each other in feverish circles – Junior on the plane to Mama Tucker (he arrived safely, he got a text from Mama), York bloody on his couch, Delta being held captive by two faceless men, Wash slipping a diamond band on Carolina’s finger. Around and around and around. 

“Thank you,” says York quietly. “For coming. I know you didn’t want to.”  

“I…” Tucker sighs, rolling over onto his side to face York. “It’s more complicated than that.”  

“No, I know.” York folds one arm over his chest, fiddling with the rough blanket with the other. “You left behind responsibilities. And it’s dangerous, what we’re doing. But you chose to come with me, and I appreciate that. I want you to know, what – whatever happens, I appreciate that.” His eye gleams faintly with light from the street. 

Tucker doesn’t really think about it. Just reaches over for York’s hand and his fingers fumble against York’s and then find their place, somehow, their fingers curling together like quotation marks. “Tucker…” whispers York.  

Careful not to jostle York, Tucker rolls over, propping himself up on one elbow to cup York’s jaw with his other hand. York shivers under him, eye wide, and before Tucker can second-guess himself he leans in and kisses York. 

His lips are warm and dry, the split in the lower lip half-healed. Tucker tastes him for a moment before York makes a faint sound of protest and draws back, into the pillow. “Tucker, I – Delta and I, we’re very – he’s everything to me –” he says, apologetic. 

“Right.” Tucker clears his throat and flops back onto his side, turning away from York, throat tight. “Yeah.” Stupid of him, not to see that.  

“Sorry.” York’s voice is rough with genuine regret, and his hand brushes against Tucker’s back, over the thin weave of his t-shirt.  

Tucker stares at the wall across the room, one arm tucked under his head. “It’s fine,” he says, keeping his voice light. “Don’t worry about it.”  

York sighs. After a moment, the hand on Tucker’s back falls away, and Tucker closes his eyes.  

He wakes in the charcoal-gray early dawn to the sound of York’s distress. Dragging himself to awakeness, Tucker leans over York, who is curled on his side, shaking and groaning. “Hey,” says Tucker, grabbing his arm. “Hey, York, it’s okay –” 

So suddenly it knocks the air out of Tucker, York seizes Tucker and flips him onto his back, straddling him, one hand pressing up under his Adam’s apple. “Whoa,” wheezes Tucker, hands up, “York, it’s me –” 

York’s wild expression fades into recognition and then contrition. “Oh my God,” he says, lifting his hands off Tucker like he’s been burnt, and he winces and holds his left ribs. “I am so sorry –” 

“No, it’s – it’s okay.” Tucker reaches up for him, putting a hand on his bare shoulder. York shivers under his touch like a horse twitching away flies. “I shouldn’t have startled you.”  

The gray light leaches the color out of York, leaving only stark shadows under his jaw and the curve of his lower lip and a dark pool in his silver eye. With each breath he takes, his bones shift under his chest, his thighs pressing into Tucker’s hips. Tucker swallows hard; he knows he shouldn’t  _want,_  he knows it’s wrong, but memories of York’s hands on him, his lips on him, York stretched out naked underneath him, sink through his brain and straight to his cock. York is sitting directly on his hips. Tucker knows he can feel his arousal, even through both of them wearing sweatpants. “Bad dream?” he says hoarsely, as a distraction. 

It works, a little too well. York’s expression turns stricken, and he swallows hard. “You don’t want to know,” he says, mastering himself, and manages a bitter smile. Gingerly, he slides off of Tucker, bruises shadowing his abdomen.  

No, thinks Tucker, considering his scars. I’m not sure I do. 

\-- 

Samuel Luis Gonzalez Ortez lays out the components of his gun on the table, piece by piece by piece. With a soft rag, he begins wiping the barrel, cloth sliding over the smooth metal. The single electric lamp casts bright highlights on the dark polished pieces, the only light in this warehouse office; the windows are covered over by black tarp. 

“Je- _ee_ -sus.” Gates strides into the room, the door swinging shut behind him. “Have you talked to this guy yet?” 

The sharp smell of cleaning solvent pricks Sam’s nostrils. “I leave the talking to you,” he deadpans. 

“Yeah. Lucky me.” Sitting down on the table, Gates swings one lanky leg, running a gloved hand through his slicked-back hair. “God, every time he talks I just want to shoot myself. Or him. Or both of us.”  

“Don’t get carried away.” Sam uses the rod to push the cleaning cloth through the inside of the barrel. “We need him.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” sighs Gates. “Hey, how’s our friend been doing?” 

Turning, Sam looks over his shoulder to where Delta Church sits on a metal folding chair pushed up against the back wall of the office, his wrists and ankles duct-taped to the chair. Church looks right back at him with green eyes too vivid to be real, though Sam can’t figure out how he would modify them like that. “Quiet,” says Sam. 

Grinning, Gates slides off the table, “Oh, they always are, before I get to them.” Meandering over to Church, he pulls a switchblade out of his pocket and flips it idly. Like a shark circling its prey, Sam thinks. “Huh, Delta? You feeling any chattier today?” 

Church gazes up at him unflinchingly, expression unchanged. Knowing where this is going, Sam returns to his gun, setting down the barrel and picking up the next piece. Behind him, there’s a sharp smack, and Church grunts. “How about now?” says Gates.  

“We need him to be able to talk,” Sam reminds him. 

“Oh, I know,” says Gates sweetly. Another stifled noise from Church. “Don’t worry, I won’t fuck him up too badly. Yet.”  

Gates continues talking, jeering at Church, punctuated by occasional strikes and sounds of pain. Sam lets it wash into the background like white noise and continues cleaning his gun, piece by meticulous piece. 


	4. Paris, Present Day

Tucker’s decided that he hates Paris.

It stinks of cigarette smoke and everyone drives like a maniac and the metro system makes no goddamn sense. The wind of passing traffic scatters dead leaves through the gutter under a leaden October sky. No one wants to talk to them in English and Tucker’s sure people are giving him weird looks, probably because he’s black, or American, or a black American. York and Wash are out contacting the American embassy or wherever the FBI are stationed in Paris, which means Tucker and Carolina have been assigned the very glamorous mission of getting food.

“Bonjour,” says Carolina, to the middle-aged woman behind the stall piled with baked goods and pastries. “Puis-je avoir quatre rouleaux de saucisse, quatre grougeres, et une baguette, s’il vous plaît?”

“I don’t get this,” mutters Tucker, looking around at the food stalls lining the little street, each overflowing with bread and flowers and and pastries and fresh fruit and cheese. “Why couldn’t we just go to a grocery store?”

“Because I’ve never been to Paris before and I want to enjoy it while I can,” says Carolina. The stall owner finishes bagging up the food and Carolina hands over money with a bright, “Merci!”

“Okay, so why not the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower or something?” Tucker shoves his hands in his pockets, following her to the next stall where she inspects mounds of green and yellow-pink apples. “It’s not like you can’t find farmers’ markets in LA.”

“This is different.” Carolina sniffs at an apple, picks out three more from the pile. “Believe me, I wish we had time to sight-see…”

Tucker sniffs, shoulders hunched against chilly breeze. “I dunno.”

Sighing, Carolina takes her purchased apples and turns to face Tucker, other market-goers pushing past them in both directions. “C’mere,” she says, pulling a pocketknife out of her purse and slicing into an apple. The yellow-green skin splits, revealing crisp ivory flesh underneath. “Close your eyes and open your mouth.”

He obeys, because that’s what you do when Carolina asks. Apple touches his tongue and Tucker chews slowly, tart juice starbursting in his mouth. “See?” says Carolina. “It’s better, right?”

Tucker opens his eyes and she smiles up at him, eyes the same bright green as the apple, her copper bangs tousled by the breeze. Something in his chest tightens. “Yeah,” manages Tucker.

“Good.” Carolina’s smile widens and she turns, threading through the crowd of chattering Parisians, and Tucker follows her, the taste of apple still on his tongue.

\--

When they return to the hotel, Wash is there but not York. “I don’t know,” he grumbles, accepting an apple from Carolina. “We were on the subway and at a stop when all of a sudden he said, ‘I’ll catch up with you later’ and got off the train. The doors closed before I could go after him.” They’re in Wash and Carolina’s room, the food spread out over newspaper on their bed.

Carolina rolls her eyes and tears the end off of the baguette, sitting cross-legged on the bed. “He’ll turn up,” she says, splitting the hunk of bread in half and layering sliced cheese on it. “Whether we want him to or not.”

“ _I_ want him to,” mutters Tucker from his perch on the desk, and takes a bite out of his sausage roll. “Despite what you guys seem to think.”

Sighing, Carolina puts down her bread. “You know how I feel about him,” she says, blunt. “And I know how you feel about him. Neither of those things are going to change anytime soon.”

Wash, reclining next to Carolina, puts a brief hand on her shoulder. “I just don’t want to have to fish him out of a gutter.”

York doesn’t turn up until much later that afternoon, laden with a gray duffle bag he didn’t have before. “Hey,” he says, setting it down on the hotel room floor carefully. His bad eye is no longer so swollen, the bruises starting to turn from purple to yellow and green. “Did you guys get food? I’m starving –”

“Dude!” says Tucker, striding towards him. “Where the hell have you been? We couldn’t get a hold of you –”

“Yeah, I turned my phone off,” says York, nonplussed, like it’s obvious. He looks over the room, at Carolina lying on the bed with her laptop open, at Wash standing by the window with his eyebrows raised, and finally at Tucker, who doesn’t know whether he wants to kiss or slap York in relief. “I said I’d be back?”

Wash rolls his eyes and turns away. “You didn’t tell us where you were going or what you were doing or when you’d be back,” says Tucker. “What if something happened to you? How were we supposed to know?”

“Oh.” York smiles a little shamefacedly and runs a hand through his hair as he crouches by the duffel. “I didn’t think of that.”

“Well, you should.” Tucker folds his arms, frowning down at him. He can’t tell York how worried he was, about how he kept York laid out in an alley, bleeding in unconscious, or shoved in the back of a van with a bag over his head, but he _can_ be pissy at him. York unzips the bag, revealing more black cases inside it. “What’d you get?”

“Stuff,” says York, helpfully. “Computer stuff. And these.” Pulling out one of the cases, he unlatches it and flips it open to reveal four handguns, black and brutal. “Wash? You need one?”

“Hm?” Wash walks over; when he sees the guns, his face tightens. “I’m not going to ask how you got those.”

“Good, because I won’t tell you.” York raises his eyebrows and holds a pistol up, grip towards Wash. “Want it?”

“I’ve got my own, thanks.”

Tucker grew up in Detroit. He had friends in gangs. He knows the score. He’s been around guns plenty of times. Looking at them still makes his skin crawl. “What about you, Carolina?” says York. “Think you can handle a gun?”

“I’m from Texas.”

“…Fair.” York holds out a gun for her and she gets up and takes it, inspecting it carefully. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll do.”

“Mm.” Carolina sights along it, aiming away from the group towards the wall. “Yeah, it’s not bad.”

“Tucker?”

York looks up at him, a gun in his hands and a question on his face. All Tucker can think is that Mama would die of disappointment if she saw him with a weapon, after how long she spent trying to keep him off the streets. “No way, dude,” scoffs Tucker loudly. “I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

“All right, man,” says York, shrugging. “You know how to fire one, at least? Just in case you have to handle it.”

“ _No._ ”

“Well, you’re gonna learn now, you’re a liability otherwise.” Getting to his feet, York stands beside Tucker, holding the gun out handle-first towards him. “First things first, basic safety. Don’t point the gun at someone unless you want to shoot them. Don’t take the safety off unless you want to shoot them. Don’t put your finger on the trigger unless you want to shoot them. Don’t put ammo in the gun unless –”

“– you want to shoot them,” mutters Tucker. “I get it, I get it.”

The look York gives him is not amused. “Treat the gun like it is loaded and live at all times. Understand?”

“Dude, I know _that_ much.”

York walks him through loading and unloading, turning the safety on and off, how to aim and fire. “I’m not saying you _have_ to use it,” he says, the black metal resting in his golden hands. “But it’s here. If you need it.”

“If it helps,” says Wash mildly, “you don’t want to be the only guy in a fight without a gun.”

Tucker sighs heavily, arms folded over his chest. He doesn’t like it, there’s no way around it. He’s about to tell York to put it away, he doesn’t want the gun, when he thinks, I need to come home for Junior.

“Give it here,” says Tucker quietly, holding out his hand. Surprise flashes across York’s face, but he presses the gun into Tucker’s palm. Wrapping his fingers around the grip, Tucker tests how it feels. Cool and foreign, but not dangerous. Just there. “Okay,” says Tucker, and lets out a deep breath. Looking up, he meets York’s eyes, slate and pearl, and straightens his shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

\--

They eventually find the grey Saab, impounded at a city lot. “They really don’t like me,” sighs Wash, exiting the police station. Tucker pulls away from the wall he’s been leaning against, walking alongside Wash down the sidewalk. “Even with my credentials they still didn’t want to talk. Anyway, the car’s waiting for its owners to come pick it up, in the lot. They didn’t let me see it.”

Their path takes them around the impound lot. Tucker eyes the chain link fence, notes the positions of security cameras. “Doesn’t look that hard to get in,” he mutters.

“Mm. Don’t linger, you look suspicious.” Wash keeps walking at a steady pace, his hands in the pockets of his black windbreaker. “I’m sure York will want to case it out on his own, anyway.”

The cold breeze stings Tucker’s face and ruffles Wash’s dark hair like a bird’s wing. “How come your guys aren’t handling this, anyway?” demands Tucker. “Why’s it up to us?”

“Well, they are handling it, via me,” says Wash mildly. “Besides, sometimes it’s better to do things off the record.”

That doesn’t sound right at all. Tucker narrows his eyes at him, dodging between a trash bin and a street sign. “Are you sure?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Wash…”

Sighing, Wash looks over at Tucker. The high collar of his coat brings out the square line of his jaw. “Tucker, I will tell you what I can,” he says. “But it’s not everything.”

“Yeah.” They continue walking down the sidewalk, towards the morning sun; it glitters on the pavement and dazzles Tucker’s eyes, and he squints. “How does Carolina live with that?”

Wash shrugs. “She knows what to expect, and knows why I can’t talk about some things. Besides, we’re not… we don’t have to share everything, you know? We’re both pretty independent people.”

“And you trust each other,” supplies Tucker. “That’s important.”

“Yeah.” Wash flashes a warm smile at Tucker, and it’s like looking into the sun. “That too.”

\--

For once, the jet lag is a good thing. It means that Tucker is wide awake and alert at two a.m., sitting in his hotel room and staring at the computer York set up on his desk, at the security camera feeds on screen. Wash sleeps soundly in his own room, for plausible deniability. Tucker checks the time on the screen – any moment now –

The clock ticks over to two-fifteen and Tucker starts the looped footage, spliced into cameras trained on the police station impound lot. On the left side of the screen, a still parking lot in grainy black and white. On the right side, York and Carolina stroll up, dressed in regular clothes, stumbling into each other slightly, arm in arm.

Tucker adjusts his glasses and settles himself cross-legged on the bed, gaze fixed on the screen. Both cops working tonight are in the main office, where it’s warm. Neither so much as look around as York and Carolina vault over the fence, darting in between the rows of parked cars.

They find the Saab. Carolina stands watch, her breath turning into clouds, while York jimmies the door open. Once the car is open, they both get in and start searching. Tucker watches and watches, but the cops never leave the building, and he can’t tell if York and Carolina find anything.

At two-forty-four a.m., York and Carolina leave the parking lot and disappear back into the Parisian night. Tucker ends the security camera loop.

Wincing, Tucker straightens from his hunch, cracking his back. It’ll be at least half an hour until they return to the hotel. I could try to sleep, thinks Tucker, moving the laptop over to the desk. But he already knows that he won’t be able to, not until York and Carolina are back safe. Tucker puts on shoes and leaves his rom, crossing the hall to knock on Wash’s door.

Wash opens the door so promptly Tucker’s sure he wasn’t sleeping, even though his hair is mussed and his eyes are bleary, and he’s wearing a t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. “What happened?” says Wash immediately.

“They’re on their way back,” says Tucker. “No problems, not that I saw.”

“Good.” Wash rubs at his face, yawning. “You going back to sleep?”

“No. You?”

Wash shakes his head. “Come in,” he says, backing into the room, and Tucker follows, closing the door behind himself. With a sigh, Wash flops onto the bed. “Did they find anything?”

“Dunno.” Tucker yawns and sits beside Wash, not quite touching him, and leans back against the headboard. “Looked like they searched the car pretty thoroughly.”

“Mm.” Wash’s eyes close, and his head tilts back; Tucker tries not to notice how that tightens the ivory skin of his throat, and fails. It’s not that he doesn’t want; he has wanted, for a while now. It’s just… well. When Tucker was younger he would have gone for that threesome, no problem. But it seems like every time he thinks about it, now, he keeps coming up with all the ways Wash and Carolina could say no, first. Fuck, thinks Tucker tiredly. I _am_ getting old.

Wash’s head droops to the side, and he snores quietly.

All right, that’s kind of cute. Smiling to himself, Tucker settles closer to Wash, so Wash’s head just rests on Tucker’s shoulder, and waits.

Tucker’s nearly asleep himself when the door opens and in hurry Carolina and York, breathless and grinning. Wash starts awake with a grunt, blinking groggily. “Hey,” says Tucker, keeping his voice casual as he rolls the shoulder Wash was leaning on to stretch it. “Find anything?”

“ _Did_ we,” says Carolina, voice ringing with triumph. She grins over at York, all animosity apparently forgotten for the moment, and digs in her pocket. “We found this!”

She holds up a thin rectangle of white paper.

Squinting at it, Wash says, “Is that a receipt?”

“Yup.” Carolina flops down onto the bed, holding it out for Wash and Tucker to inspect. Though Tucker scans the piece of paper – it’s in French, they bought something at 13:22, the name at the bottom reads _Miles Luna_ – but what he’s really paying attention to is York. York, who is sitting with an elbow on the desk and his chin on his hand, frowning and not sharing in Carolina’s elation. “And they paid with a _card._ We have a name.”

“Probably a fake name, but still,” mutters Wash, scrutinizing the receipt. “As long as they’re using the same card…”

“The time stamp is from after the car was stolen but before they should have arrived in Paris. They must have stopped for food along the way from Zurich,” says Carolina, smug. “One of them was being an idiot and paid with his card –”

“York,” says Tucker, cutting across her. “What’s wrong?”

York’s gaze flashes to him, and Carolina stops short. “Hm?”

“What’s up? You don’t look happy.” Tucker crosses his legs under him.

Sighing, York rubs at the back of his neck. “It’s too easy,” he says reluctantly. “It’s a careless mistake.”

Wash and Carolina look up from the receipt at him. “You think it was planted?” asks Wash.

One finger rubbing his upper lip, York nods.

“No,” protests Carolina. “It’s not obvious enough to be a plant, we could have so easily missed it. If they wanted us to come to them, why not just send a hostage note?”

“I don’t know,” admits York, “but I don’t like it –”

“So maybe it is a plant,” says Tucker. “So what?”

“So they’re – either they’re trying to lure us into a trap, or send us completely on the wrong foot.” York groans, rubbing at his face. “I don’t _know!_ ” he bursts out suddenly, slamming his hand against the desk. “And the longer it takes us to figure it out, the longer they have D –”

“Okay,” says Wash, “let’s think about this –”

“Of course they’re trying to lure us in.” Sudden conviction warms Tucker; he knows he’s right. “They need you to unlock the hard drive, right? Both you and Delta.”

York stares at him. “Shit,” says Wash, and drops  his head back with his eyes closed.

“So here’s my question,” continues Tucker, unfazed by Carolina’s judgement or Wash’s resignation or York’s desperation. “Who the fuck cares? They’re going to help us come to them? Great! That makes everything easier for us. And they’ll think the entire time that we’re playing into their hands.”

“And then what?” says York hoarsely. “We fall into their trap?”

“I dunno, we’ll figure it out when we get there.” Tucker shrugs, smiling a little at York. “It’s four against two. I like our odds.”

“Five against two,” murmurs York. “Don’t count out D.”

Wash sighs, rubbing at his face. “It’s a gamble.”

“Everything is,” says Tucker. “This whole trip is a gamble –”

“If we’re good enough, the odds don’t matter.” Carolina leans back on her hands, looking from Wash to Tucker with her eyebrows raised. “The more we can stack them in our favor –”

“And I’d rather be lucky than good.” York gets up abruptly, pacing again. “Skill only gets you so far.”

Shooting him an annoyed look, Carolina says, “You can rely on your own skill, but you can’t trust to chance –”

“Hey, hey,” says Tucker. “How about we be both lucky and good?”

Both of them roll their eyes at him, but it’s better than them sniping at each other. “Okay,” yawns Wash. “We have a receipt and a name. Let’s get some sleep and plan tomorrow.”

“All right.” Yawning himself, Tucker slides off the bed and heads to the door. They exchange some mumbled good nights and cross the hall and Tucker finds himself back in his dim hotel room with York. So tired his bones feel gritty, Tucker collapses into bed, pulling the covers over him. But York is restless, pacing from door to window and back again. “Dude,” groans Tucker, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Get some sleep.”

“They’re playing with us,” mutters York, pushing aside the curtains to stare at nocturnal Paris. “Like cat and mouse –”

“Get in bed and sleep or I will knock you out myself.”

York huffs and disappears into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. A few moments later, Tucker hears the splashing sound of York taking a piss, and then the shower turning on. The white noise of water running lulls him into half-sleep, and he only comes back to awareness when York slides under the covers beside him, damp and smelling of shampoo. Half-remembered instinct tells Tucker to roll over and curl around York, but he stays to his side of his bed. York sighs and shifts restlessly, holds his ribs, and eventually lapses into stillness.

When he wakes Tucker in the pre-morning with his gasping and shaking, Tucker takes care to wake him slowly and gently, and York groans quietly, and they have nothing more to say to each other.

\--

The subway car doors open, and Tucker steps inside, wedging himself past a woman with a canvas bag full of stuff. York hops in after him, his backpack with their new acquisition slung against his side, one arm pressed tight over it. Coming to stand beside Tucker, he holds onto the overhead rail, eyes flicking from passenger to passenger.

Today’s quest – get a functional handheld credit card reader. York says once he has one and knows how it works, it’ll make tracking down the card “Miles Luna” used a lot easier. Tucker doesn’t argue with him.

They rattle through a couple stops. At the third, the subway car lurches to a halt and York staggers into Tucker, wrapping an arm around him. “Don’t look,” he murmurs, breath tickling Tucker’s neck, “but we’re being followed.”

Tucker tries to look normal while his entire body goes icy with fear. Holding onto one of the subway poles for support, he drops his mouth to York’s ear and says, “Who?”

Chuckling like Tucker just told him a joke, York says, “Behind you, big guy, bald, in a black jacket. Probably Russian.” His arm around Tucker’s waist is firm and warm; the subway lurches again and they stumble against each other. “Follow my lead.” He laughs again, and then so quickly Tucker can barely process it, kisses Tucker on the neck before pulling away, though his arm stays around Tucker’s waist.

Tucker swallows hard, ignoring the flush on his cheeks, grateful that York can’t see it. He knows it’s just a ruse. He knows York doesn’t mean any of it. But his body doesn’t.

They reach the next stop. The doors are just starting to close when York seizes Tucker’s arm and darts forward, running through the shrinking gap. Tucker leaps off with him, just making it onto the platform, and spins around to see if their pursuer followed. But the train rushes off, leaving behind no one who looks like York’s description. “Did we lose him?” pants Tucker.

“For now,” says York grimly. “C’mon,” and he starts walking towards the stairs that lead to the other platform. “We’re going to have to take a longer route home. If that’s the only one after us I’ll be damned.”

York leads him on a circuitous and winding path, on at one stop, off at another, switching lines, sometimes going above ground to walk four blocks to a different subway stop and descend underground again, all the while with his fingers wound through Tucker’s and a carefree laugh on his lips that doesn’t mask the wary darting of his eyes. All told, it takes them nearly an hour to get back to the hotel when it should only have been twenty minutes. “What took you so long?” demands Wash when they enter the room; he and Carolina are lounging on the bed together, watching the news.

“We picked up a tail.” York drops Tucker’s hand and goes to the windows, ripping the curtains shut. “Probably Russian. I lost them for now but we’re going to have to be a hell of a lot more careful in the future.” He looks from Carolina to Wash to Tucker, frowning. “We don’t go out alone, and keep a gun on you at all times. Got it?”

Tucker nods, his hand still warm from York holding it. “Got it.”

\--

Sam turns the hard drive over in his hands. It’s not very large, barely bigger than his palm and only an inch thick, its surface polished dark metal. Such a small thing, for all the secrets it contains. Secrets that could end the world.

“You know,” he says quietly, running a thumb over the edge of the drive, “you’re only prolonging the inevitable.”

Breathing staggered, Church looks up at Sam from under his brows, black hair falling over his face. His left eye is swollen red and half-closed, and red blood drips from the split in his lip. Red and purple bruising patterns his cheekbones, and also Gates’ knife sticks out of his thigh, the quivering handle pointing upwards. But he doesn’t speak.

“There are only two outcomes,” continues Sam. He stands in front of Church, who is still bound to his chair. “Either your partner follows the breadcrumb trail we left and finds us, while Gates uses you as entertainment, which point we capture him and torture you both until you give up the password. Or you work with us to find him, and get the information we need out of him, and I give you both a swift death instead of leaving you to Gates’ tender mercies. Understand?”

Church’s breathing harshens, his nostrils flaring. Blood from his thigh drips onto the floor – _plip – plip – plip._ But he still doesn’t speak.

“Very well,” sighs Sam, tucking the hard drive back into his pocket. “It makes no difference to me.”


	5. Siktyakh, Two Years Ago

York hitches his backpack higher up and trudges along the side of the road, boots crunching on the frosty grass. At his side, D squints out into the night, his misty breath white in the light from his headlamp. “How much farther, d’you think?” says York, more to hear the sound of his own voice than anything else. The cold air stings his lips and nose. “Five miles?”  

D shrugs, makes a shaky hand gesture. 

“Yeah,” sighs York, his breath clouding the air in front of him. His own headlamp shines a circle of white light on the ground in front of him, the only illumination in the wilderness. They’ve been walking for at least a couple of hours, with the road as their only guide, and his hands and feet are starting to get numb. And it’s only October; he can’t imagine what kind of hellscape Siberia becomes in winter. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he stares down at his feet and marches on. 

Maybe fifteen minutes later, D grabs his jacket sleeve, stopping him. York turns and looks where he’s pointing; two points of light approach them on the road. A car, the first they’ve seen since nightfall. “Shit,” sighs York. There’s no guarantee whoever’s driving that car is after them, but there’s no guarantee they’re not, either. He switches off his headlamp, and so does D. The darkness is immediate and all-consuming, broken only by stars scattered across the sky like glitter on velvet. 

Grabbing York’s hand, D pulls off his glove so he can sign into York’s palm, York feeling the letters he can’t see.  _We should hitch a ride._  

“What?” says York. “And get kidnapped?” 

D’s laugh is barely more than a hoarse whisper, his fingers moving in York’s hand.  _Depends on how many guys are in the car._  

“We’ll see.” A car would be nice, York has to admit. Their last one (stolen) broke down fifty miles out of Novosibirsk. Hence the hiking. 

They wait, watching the headlights slowly approach. The only sounds are the whistling of wind in the pine trees and far away, the ever-constant rushing of the river. York blows on his hands to warm them, stamps his chilly feet.  

As the car draws nearer, York squints against the glare of headlights, trying to determine how many occupants there are. D grabs his hand again, taps it once.  _One._  

“You sure?”  

D squeezes his hand. 

Checking his gun in his waistband, York steps up the side of the road, adjusting his knit beanie on his head. Beside him, D waits with his hands on his backpack shoulder straps, the sharp planes of his face set.  

The car pulls up beside them and stops, the driver’s window rolling down. York tenses, one hand behind his back on his gun, but the driver is an old man, short and heavy. “ _You boys are lost?_ ” he says in Russian, leaning towards them. 

Relaxing slightly, York bends down and smiles his most disarming smile. “ _Yeah. Our car broke down, we’re trying to get to_ _Siktyakh_ _.”_  After almost a year of living here, his Russian’s gotten good. Enough that he can pass for a local if no one looks too closely, at least. 

The old man looks from him to D, broad mouth mashing together. “ _You want a ride?_ ” 

Shrugging, York turns to D and asks, “ _What do you think?_ ” 

D nods.  

“ _Sure,_ ” says York. “ _Thank you so much –_ ” 

“ _Don’t mention it,_ ” grumbles the old man, turning away. Seems like he’s having a hard time meeting York’s eyes. 

Slinging their backpacks off, York and D slide into the back seat, and York allows himself two seconds to enjoy the warmth of the car. Then with a sputtering start they’re off, back onto the road.  

“ _You have family in_ _Siktyakh_ _?_ ” asks the old man. 

“ _Sort of,_ ” says York. “ _There was a girl I was very sweet on, when I was a little boy, but she moved away and I didn’t see her for a very long time, but then I met her cousin and he said she was living in_ _Siktyakh_ _now, so…_ ” 

It’s a good thing the old man is looking at the road, because he doesn’t see D roll his eyes. “ _You think she is happy to see you?”_  

“ _I hope so._ ” York manages a lovesick grin. 

“ _Hmm._ ” Adjusting the rearview mirror, the old man glances back at them. “ _Your friend doesn’t talk much, huh?_ ” 

“ _He is a friend of mine, from Italy. He doesn’t know Russian.”_  

Behind the backs of the seats, where the old man can’t see, D signs,  _Look at his neck and hands._  

York looks. The old man wears a flat gray cap, and from under it a bead of sweat trickles down, behind his ear and along the rolls of his neck. His hands on the steering wheel shake, the knuckles white.  _I see,_  signs York. 

They lapse into silence, the car grinding along the gravel road, the cone of light from its headlights keeping the inky night at bay. D can’t find anything else suspicious, it seems, but for York the sweat and the shaking hands are proof enough. He waits, ready to draw his gun, not letting his guard down despite how his body wants to relax into the cushioned seats and the heat after hours of marching in the cold and dark.  

Sure enough, it happens. The old man turns off the road to the left, onto a street that’s barely more than a dirt trail. “ _Where are you going?_ ” asks York. “ _This is not the way to_ _Siktyakh_ _._ ” 

“ _This way is shorter._ ” The old man’s voice quavers.  

York exchanges a glance with D, who nods, eyes hard as emeralds behind his glasses. “ _All right,_ ” sighs York, drawing his gun out and pressing it against the back of the old man’s head. “ _Stop the car._ ” 

The old man gulps and slams on the brakes, and the car jolts to halt. “ _Out,_ ” orders York. 

“ _Please_ ,” begs the old man, “ _please, they told me to, they told me_ _, I didn’t want to, please –_ ” 

“ _I’m not going to hurt you._ ” York takes care to keep his voice light and pleasant. “ _As long as you do what I say. Get out of the car._ ” 

Hands held in the air, the old man scrambles out, his breath puffing in the cold air. York gets out as well, keeping the gun trained on him. On the other side, D steps out and shuts the car door behind him, crossing around to get into the driver’s seat. “ _Okay, in the back,_ ” continues York, and the old man hastily obeys. “ _Put your seat belt on, I don’t want you to get hurt, huh?_ ” 

His face as pale as a mushroom, the old man obeys with trembling hands. York closes the door behind him and walks around to get into the passenger seat, twisting around so he can keep the gun and his good eye trained on the old man. “You know where you’re going?” he says to D. 

D nods, starting the car. “ _My friend will drive,_ ” says York to the old man, just chatting. “ _He has all the maps in his head. Plus his night vision is a lot better than mine, you know?_ ” and he points to his bad eye.  

Sweat beads the old man’s forehead, his eyes flicking from the gun to D to back again. “ _So,_ ” continues York. “ _Who told you to do this?_ _Olyenushkov_ _?_ ” 

Swallowing hard, the old man nods. 

Yeah, it would be that fucker. York sighs, rubbing his forehead. “ _What did he promise you? Money?_ ” 

“ _No, he – my wife, my children, my children’s children, he said – if I didn’t bring you to him –”_  babbles the old man, wringing his knobbly hands.  

“ _I know, I get it,_ ” groans York. “ _Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out –”_  

D smacks him on the leg. Still keeping the gun pointed at the old man, York looks over at D, who signs one-handed,  _We should just leave him._  

“We can’t, they’ll fucking kill him and his entire family –” 

 _Not our problem._  

Gaping at him, York says, “D –” 

 _He’s a liability._  

“We’re not just abandoning him on the side of the road,” snaps York. “Honestly, D, what the hell.”  

D shrugs, unrepentant. 

“We’re not –  _Don’t listen to him, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about._ ” York switches to Russian, turning back to the old man. “ _How does_ _Olyenushkov_ _talk to you? Cell phone? Are you supposed to contact him?_ ” 

The old man nods, eyes wide. “ _He always calls me –”_  

Extending his free hand, York says, “ _Give me the phone._ ” 

Digging in his pocket with fumbling hands, the old man hands over a gray brick of a flip phone, its back scratched. Opening it, York scrolls through recent calls until he finds an unknown number. “ _This him?”_ he says, showing the number to the old man.  

“ _Yes.”_  

Propping his hand with the gun up on the seat back, York calls the number, fully expecting to get no signal. But amazingly enough, it rings. And after the third ring, it picks up. “ _Hello, Sergei,_ ” says a male voice, in Russian. “ _Do you have them?”_  

“Hi, Victor,” says York. “It’s me, Foxtrot. How you doing?”  

Silence on the other end, for a long moment. “Foxtrot,” says Victor Olyenushkov slowly, each syllable like ice. “How nice to finally talk to you.”  

“Yeah, you too.” York imagines Olyenushkov as tall, blond, with a beaky nose and pale eyes. “I met a friend of yours.” His hands on the wheel, D glances over at him, the road sliding away under them. “What’s his name? Sergei?” 

“I take it he failed in his assigned duty to bring you to me,” says Olyenushkov. 

“Yeah, well... can’t really blame the guy, I put a gun to his head.” York keeps his tone friendly and casual, feeling like he’s tiptoeing through a mine field. One wrong word and the whole thing blows up. “It’s not his fault.”  

“He failed, regardless of fault.” Olyenushkov continues, implacable, “And failure is met with punishement.”  

York hisses through his teeth. “See, about that... I was wondering if we could work out some kind of deal.”  

D’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead and he signs something furiously at York, but York keeps the gun and his gaze fixed on Sergei, who is still sweating and doughy. “What kind of deal?” says Olyenushkov slowly. 

“Here’s how it works. Three days from now, Friday, we meet in Novosibirsk. You pick the location. Me and my partner will walk up, and we’ll talk. But if you hurt Sergei before then – and believe me, I will know if you do – then I am strapping a bomb to my chest and visiting the Kremlin.  _Understand_?”  

Scowling, D pulls on York’s shoulder, signs,  _What_ _do you think you’re doing?_   

York flaps a hand at him to be quiet because Olyenushkov is saying, “And if you don’t meet me on Friday?” 

“Then you can do as much punishing as you want, I guess.”  

Olyenushkov sighs. “Why should you care? You have just met this man. What is he to you?” 

“Well, nothing really.” York shrugs. “But if he got killed because of me, it’d be on my conscience. It would have been a lot smarter for me to kill him already.”  

“How do I know you haven’t?” 

Twisting around, York holds the phone out towards the old man. “ _Hey, Sergei, you have any words for your pal Olyenushkov?_ ” 

“ _Please,”_ begs Sergei, “ _he had a gun, I did not mean to fail, please –”_  

“Happy?” York brings the phone back to his ear. “Friday. Novosibirsk. You and me.”  

In the silence of Olyenushkov making a decision, York’s heart pounds, his throat tight. “All right,” says Olyenushkov slowly. “Do not make me look like a fool, Foxtrot.” 

“Don’t disappoint me.” York snaps the phone shut, hanging up, and slumps back in his seat with a sigh. 

 _What was that?_  demands D. 

“Just buying us some time.” Turning back around, York says, “ _Hey, Sergei. You’re_ _gonna_ _be okay, all right?”_ Whether the old man believes him, he can’t tell, but he doesn’t look like he’s going to be doing much of anything soon. “ _Wasn’t loaded,”_ says York, with a little smile, waving the gun at Sergei, and puts it back on his belt. It is, but Sergei doesn’t need to know that. 

They drive and drive and drive. The night and the Siberian wilderness are endless, one and the same, until it feels like their car is a little boat of light and warmth sailing through deep space. York yawns, rubbing at the back of his neck. His stomach growls.  

After what seems like an eternity, pinpricks of light appear in the distance. Siktyakh. “Thank God,” sighs York, stretching his legs. “I gotta piss so bad...”  

D snorts. He’s looking a little bleary after hours of staring into the dark, but he still drives steadily.  

Siktyakh is a small town, maybe a few hundred buildings built out of cement and corrugated metal, drooping power lines connecting them. D pulls into an alley and parks, rolling his shoulders with a sigh. “ _All right, let’s go,”_ says York, getting out of the car, and Sergei scrambles out as well. Their boots crunch on the snow. “ _Hey, Sergei. Here.”_  

The old man freezes, looking desperately like he wants to run away. Walking over to him, York hands over the cell phone, and then fishes 12,000 rubles out of his wallet and gives them to Sergei as well. He accepts them mutely, bug-eyed. “ _Listen to me,”_  says York quietly. “ _Get your family, your wife, kids, grandkids, all of them. Go to Yekaterinburg, find a woman named Petra Galanis at the Greek embassy. She’ll get you out of here.”_ D hands the car keys to Sergei and stands beside York, his hands in his jacket pockets. “ _Don’t delay. Got it?”_  

Sergei nods, clutching the phone and money and keys. 

“ _Thanks for the ride.”_ York nods to him and turns, trudging back out of the alley, D at his side. Falling snowflakes turn to pricks of light under the single street lamp. They need to find lodging, somewhere. There’s got to be at least one inn or hostel or desperate landlord who doesn’t ask questions in this town. 

 _That was foolish,_  signs D.  _Well-intentioned, but foolish. He’ll never make it._  

York sighs. “At least this way he has a shot.” 


	6. Paris, Present Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Russian is fully translatable.

The building that houses the marketplace looks like it was once a train station, a web of blue-green steel and clouded glass arching over the stalls. It isn’t just food and flowers and produce being hawked here; Tucker sees all sorts of crafts, from rugs to blankets to jewelry to clothing and purses, and pottery and artwork. The bustle is comforting. With this many people talking, the French syllables blend to white noise, and Tucker looks around at the different booths, thinking about grabbing a souvenir for Tucker. Maybe one of those hand-carved wooden animals.

But York is twitchy, trying to look in all directions at once, his good eye darting from person to person to person. Someone brushes against him and he jumps away, staggering into Tucker, and clutches his ribs with a hiss. “Dude, chill,” mutters Tucker, uncomfortably aware of the weight of the concealed gun at his belt. “You’re going to hit somebody.”

Muttering under his breath, York hunches his shoulders and weaves through the crowd, Tucker hurrying behind him. The address for "Miles Luna’s" credit card points to here, and so they weave through the stalls to the back of the marketplace, to the stairs that lead to the management office on the second floor.

The office manager is a short woman with dark cropped hair, wearing a red sweater dress. “Bonjour,” she says, answering York’s knock with a quizzical look from him to Tucker. “Comment puis-je vous aider?”

“Je parle anglais, sorry,” says York, with his most winning smile. “I need your help.”

The woman’s dark eyebrows lower suspiciously; Tucker sneaks a glance at the office behind her. It’s neat and precise, with a potted orchid on the desk. No nameplate, though. “With what?” she says slowly.

“I’m looking for a man who registered a credit card to this address,” and York hands her the printed results of his illicit digging. “A Miles Luna.”

“Oh,” says the woman, and frowns, reading through the papers. “ _Him._ ”

“I take it you’re not fond of him,” says Tucker mildly.

“He has not paid his rent for the stall space,” she sniffs. “And has not even set up a booth either!” She looks back up at York and Tucker. “You are American? What do you want with him?”

“We’re working with the bank,” supplies York smoothly. “He’s defaulted on several loan payments but we’re having trouble tracking him down.”

Her eyes remain narrowed suspiciously. “Can I see some identification?”

“Of course.” York reaches inside his jacket pocket and pulls out an envelope, from which pulls a sheaf of papers that he shows to her. She barely has time to look them over before he’s taken them back, but it seems to be enough. Tucker has no idea what's on there or where York got those documents from.

“Well,” she sighs, hands on hips. “I assume you want to see Luna’s papers and deposit?”

“That would be great,” says York.

York sits down with her at the desk, but Tucker does a circuit of the office, and an idea comes to him. “Which stall space did he rent?” he asks.

“Fifty-seven,” says the woman, and pushes a diagram of the marketplace towards Tucker. “Here.”

Taking the paper, Tucker says, “Thank you.” After a few moments of looking it over, he’s reasonably sure he knows where the stall slot is, so he returns the paper to her desk and heads out of the office, descending back down the stairs and into the marketplace. Through the bustling stalls, dodging around a group of middle-aged women in dark shawls, and over to where slot fifty-seven is. It’s actually not hard to find, considering it’s the one empty slot.

Well, not entirely empty.

Tucker pauses, looking down at the envelope taped to the floor. All four edges are sealed to the concrete pavement with duct tape, and the paper is dirty but not torn.

A sinking feeling in his chest, Tucker crouches and pulls out his pocket knife, carefully slicing through the duct tape to free the envelope. It’s just a regular manila envelope, photo-sized, no markings on either side, and it doesn’t feel like there’s anything in it. Tucker stands and peels up the little brass tabs, opening the envelope flap. Oh, there’s something in here after all. Tucker takes out a polaroid photo, carefully holding it by the edges.

The photo is of a man, head and shoulders in frame. His face is long and narrow, jaw angled, his dark hair buzzed short on the side but long enough on top that it falls into his eyes. One eye is a brilliant gold-green, like Carolina’s. The other is red and swollen. Bruises color his cheekbones, and blood stains under his nose and lower lip. He stares at the camera with stoic defiance. Tucker turns the photo over, in case there’s anything written on the back. There is, just one thing.

:)

“Fuck,” sighs Tucker.

\--

“They’re baiting you,” says Carolina, arms folded.  “That’s all this is. They’re trying to provoke you into going after them.”

“Well, it’s working,” snaps York. He paces the hotel room, fists clenched, snarling every time a wall stops his progress. The walls gleam butter-yellow in the light of the lamp; the curtains are drawn, blocking both daylight and unfriendly eyes. “How can you be so calm? He’s your _cousin!_ ”

“I’m calm because being emotional doesn’t help him!” she retorts, eyes snapping.

“Hey hey hey, take it easy,” says Tucker, from his post leaning on the desk. The next time York passes him Tucker puts a hand on his arm, attempting to slow him, but York just shakes his arm off. “Arguing doesn’t help him either.”

Sighing shakily, York scrubs his hands through his hair, making it all rumpled. “Okay,” he gasps, back turned to Tucker. “What’s next.”

Wash, sitting cross-legged on the bed, frowns down at the papers York got from the marketplace lady, his cheek resting on his fist. “There’s not a lot in these,” he says. “Nothing that we don’t already know. I can take that photo to the legate, see if they can analyze it, but it’ll take at least a few days to get results. Probably more.”

 “We don’t have a few days,” says York, hoarse.

Carolina points out, “If they’ve waited this long for us, they’ll wait longer.”

“We don’t know if they’re waiting!” York spins around, glaring at her, pointing aggressively out the window. “That photo could have been placed there _days_ ago, right after they got him! We don’t even know if he’s still alive!”

“York,” murmurs Tucker, reaching for his arm again, and this time York is so incensed he doesn’t seem to notice. “She’s trying to help.”

Glowering, York lets Tucker pull him back, turning away again. “You’re right, we don’t know,” says Carolina, with forced calm. “So stop jumping to conclusions.”

“There’s got to be an address on those papers, right?” says Tucker.

“Yes, but it’s fake,” sighs Wash. “I don’t get any results when I plug it into maps.”

“Let me see that,” snaps York, grabbing the paper from him. He scans the page, the scars around his eye tightening as his expression grows blank. “That’s because it’s not an address,” he mutters, frowning. “It’s a code.” He sinks down onto the bed, staring intently at the pages.

Wash peers over his shoulder. “A code? How can you tell?”

“Because it’s my job to tell. And that’s not a French post code, for one thing.” Stretching over Wash, York grabs a pen and bends back over the paper, flipping over another paper to start scratching solutions on the back. Within minutes it’s clear the building could burn down around him and he wouldn’t notice.

Carolina’s hand brushes Tucker’s elbow. “Can I talk to you?” she murmurs. “Outside.”

“Huh? Sure.” Tucker leaves the hotel room with her, aware of Wash glancing at them curiously.

Once in the hallway, Carolina closes the door behind her and sighs, leaning against the wall. The hotel hallway is carpeted in brown pattern, the walls ivory and lined with doors. The faint smell of stale cigarette smoke hangs in the air, the smell of motels and Tucker’s childhood vacations. “You need to watch out for him,” she says quietly. “It’s a puzzle now, and he’s not going to stop until it’s solved.”

“He wasn’t going to stop anyway,” says Tucker, bristling slightly. He’s not a babysitter. “Why me?”

“Because you’re the only one he listens to.” Carolina tilts her head back, circles under her eyes. Her blue tank top leaves her arms bare, exposing smooth curves of muscle. “You need to keep him from running headlong into disaster.”

Tucker bites his lip, looking up at her from under raised eyebrows. “How come you care? He could drop off the face of the planet and you’d be happy.”

Sighing, Carolina brushes her bangs out of her face. “I could,” she says. “But not if he dragged you and Wash down with him, like he did...” She sighs again, a hint of old grief on her features, and admits quietly, “I care about the two of you.” 

A strange aching warmth blooms in Tucker’s chest, and he wants to pull Carolina to him, to cup a hand behind her head and lean his cheek on her hair. Her eyes meet his, fierce, searching, and Tucker’s heart stutters like he’s facing the edge of a cliff –

The door slams open and they both jump. “Get your stuff, Tucker,” says York breathlessly. “We’re going out.”

“What?” says Tucker. “Where? Why?”

“I deciphered the code. We’re going to church.”

\--

Tucker was never particularly religious, growing up. Sure, he went to Baptist church with Mama and Dad every Sunday, resenting having to spend his morning in Sunday School learning about a bunch of old dead guys with funny names instead of watching cartoons or playing basketball with the other kids on his block. After Dad died, of course, he stopped going completely and hasn’t been back since.

The church that York leads him to is very different from the old brick building of Tucker’s childhood. Tucker remembers the fellowship hall with its noisy air conditioning and carpet straight from the 80’s as much as he does the church itself, with the singing and swaying of the choir and the exhortations of the preacher and all the women in their big hats.

But this church, tucked away in a corner of Paris, is a columned stone building, by no means Notre Dame but not exactly small either. Gargoyles grimace down at Tucker as he walks up the steps behind York. The inside is dim after the bright fall sunshine, all the shadows umber, and so quiet that footsteps echo on the polished stone floor. The stained glass windows, high above, throw chips of colored light into the aisle, and the air smells of incense. It’s a sweet, smoky smell. An Old World smell.

York heads towards front of the church, but Tucker hangs back, feeling vividly out of place. “You go on,” he mutters, when York looks back at him questioningly. “I’ll just, uh, hang back here.”

Shrugging, York continues up to the pews at the front of the church, where a handful of others have already gathered, in preparation for what looks like Mass. There’s another bench against the back wall, separate from the pews, and Tucker sinks down onto it.

The fake address code turned out to be the name of the church, and a time. Sighing, Tucker folds his arms over his chest and settles in, careful not to lean against the concealed gun in his belt, as the white-robed priest starts intoning. The whole thing makes him deeply uncomfortable. Carolina was right; it’s a puzzle now, and York’s being sucked in. But why bother, with all the clues and the hints and the treasure hunt? Wouldn’t it be easier to just call York and tell him where they are, if they want him to come?

Maybe that would be too obvious, Tucker thinks. It would put York on edge, and reveal all their cards at once. But like this… 

Frowning, Tucker crosses his ankle over his knee. Whoever’s laying down this trail knows York well enough to know that stringing him along, bit by bit, will work. And that’s the most unnerving thing of all.

Up at the front of the church, York has his head and shoulders bowed. Tucker keeps an eye out for whoever they’re supposed to be meeting, but he’s the only person in the church not attending or officiating Mass. Maybe it’s one of the priests, that’d be funny. The appointed meeting time is 16:20, so there’s still a few minutes left.

The priest continues chanting or whatever he’s doing, in French or Latin, Tucker’s not sure, as he moves things around on a cloth-covered table. He holds up a pale round disc, and a bell chimes, and he breaks it, and then holds up a gold goblet, and a bell chimes again. It’s fuckin’ weird.

The people in the pews, including York, file out into the center aisle to kneel at the rail separating them from the priest. York is at the end, next to a squat older man in a corduroy coat. The priest and one of his assistants (assistant priests? Is that a thing?) goes from person to person, handing them something from a little gold dish, and then giving them a sip from the gold cup. Oh, right, Communion.

Everyone goes back to their seats, the priest does a little more chanting, and then… that’s it. York gets to his feet, crosses himself, and walks back to Tucker. “All right,” he says, all business. “Let’s go.”

“But – what about –” Tucker gets to his feet. “We’re not meeting anybody?”

A scrap of white flashes briefly in between York’s fingers before he puts it in his pocket. “Already did.”

They pass through double doors, into the nave. “When?” asks Tucker.

“At Communion. From the priest.” York smiles wryly. “Think somebody knows I’m an expat Catholic.”

“Yeah,” says Tucker, squinting against the sunlight as they exit the church. “About that –”

York stops short, grabbing Tucker’s arm, his attention fixed on the large man in black standing at the foot of the church steps. The man, whose neck is thicker than his head, smiles up at York in a very threatening way. “Фокстрот,” he says. “У меня есть сообщение для вас от Оленушков.”

Tucker doesn’t need to know what he’s saying to know it’s not good. “York –”

“Stay here,” mutters York, his face drawn sharp as a knife, and starts descending, step by step. “Ну, долго, не виделись, Колка,” he says, voice like steel. “Вы пошли в ад, чтобы поговорить с ним?”

The Russian laughs, loud and mocking, and several people passing through the square stop and stare at him. “Вы не слышали? Оленушков жив!”

York stops dead. “Я выстрелил ему в голову,” he says, incredulous. “Он умер передо мной.”

Shrugging, the Russian spreads his arms wide, palms up. “Может быть, вы были не так успешны, как вы думаете.”

A breeze whips through and Tucker shivers, zipping his jacket up, highly aware of the press of his gun against the small of his back. By now York is on the same pavement level as the Russian, his eyes narrowed. “Что за сообщение?” York demands.

“Он говорит это,” and the Russian draws himself up as if reciting. “Через три дня вы встретите его под Эйфелевой башней с жестким диском в руке. Или же он лично доставит ваш труп президенту Путину.”

Tucker caught one word in all of that – _Putin._ Frowning, he starts slowly walking down the stairs, thinking, _York_ , _what the_ hell _did you get yourself into?_

“Ну, у меня есть сообщение назад,” snaps York. “Расскажи оленушков –”

“Ой,” says the Russian casually, and his eyes slide over to Tucker, and he smirks. “И ты можешь принести свою обезьяну тоже –”

York lunges forward, whipping his gun out and pointing it at the Russian, snarling, “You take that back!” and the Russian draws his own pistol at York –

“Whoa whoa whoa!” yells Tucker, leaping down and pushing in between them, his hands held out, stomach dropping in terror. Several passerby scream, retreating towards the edges of the square. This close the Russian is terrifying, with flinty blue eyes and flaring nostrils and a sour mouth. York looks murderous. “Calm down, all right? No shooting.” He looks York right in the eyes, half-begging, half-ordering. “No shooting.”

“Вы принимаете заказы от него?” says the Russian disparagingly, and Tucker has to physically hold York back from lunging at him. The black circle of the Russian’s gun muzzle is inches from Tucker’s face, sunlight gleaming on the precise, deadly edge, and Tucker seizes a fistful of York’s jacket, dragging him back.

“We gotta get out before the cops get here,” pants Tucker, wrapping an arm around York’s chest and pulling him back. His gun arm drops slightly, though he and the Russian still have eyes locked on each other.

But the Russian backs away too,  holding his gun up before putting it away. “Помните!” he calls after them, as Tucker tugs York away, back towards a street. “Эйфелева башня, три дня! В десять утра.” And he turns and walks away, horrified Parisians shrinking away from him.

As if released from a spell York turns, putting his own gun away. Grabbing his arm, Tucker breaks into a run, but they barely go a few paces before York staggers to a halt, grimacing and holding his ribs. They speed-walk into the nearest alley, where York leans against a wall, eyes closed and breathing hard. “Christ,” he mutters.

“What the fuck was that?” demands Tucker.

York cracks an eye open to look at him, confused. “What?”

“The _hell_ did you pull a gun on him for?”

“I –” York pulls away from the wall, frowning, an angry flush on his cheeks. “Did you hear what he said?”

“No, and it doesn’t matter, because that was a fucking stupid move!” yells Tucker. The air is stinging cold but he’s hot all over, fury swooping in to replace fear. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“He called you a –”

“I don’t give a damn!” Tucker glares at him, breathing hard, and only stops himself from pushing York against the wall by remembering his broken ribs. “I’ve been called nigger before and it fucking hurts, okay, but not as bad as getting _shot_ does!”

They stare at each other in the shadowy alley between two stone buildings, standing between a pile of broken-down cardboard and a half-full dumpster. “We’d better get back to the hotel,” says Tucker at last.

“Yeah.” York looks like he wants to say more, but thinks better of it. He leads Tucker on another meandering route back, meant to throw off any pursuit, and the entire time neither of them speak to each other except for curt directions. Tucker, for his part, fumes silently, determinedly not looking at York as they rattle through the subway. It was a bitchass idiotic move and _nearly got them killed_ and every time Tucker thinks about the gun muzzle in his face a chill runs down his spine. Too close. Way, way too close.

When they get back to the hotel Tucker heads straight to his room, yanking on the door handle and striding in. Dragging his duffel bag out, he throws it onto the bed and starts tossing his clothes back into it. “Tucker?” says York, hovering in the doorway. “What are you…?”

“Packing,” snaps Tucker, crossing to the bathroom to grab his toiletries. He knows he’s not actually going to be able to leave tonight, he needs to get a flight first, but packing makes him feel better. “What does it look like?”

Stepping into the room, York closes the door behind him, frowning. “You’re leaving…?”

“Yeah.”

“…why?”

“Because I’m fucking done with this, York!” Tucker throws down the folded socks he was holding. “I’m not getting killed because of your mess –”

York pauses, taken aback. “Tucker –”

“Why’d you even bring me here, huh? Wash has his FBI contacts and Carolina’s a doctor and they both know krav maga, what do I do?” Tucker’s voice rises, bouncing off the walls. “ ‘I need you, you’re the only one who sees me.’ Is that what I am? Fucking _emotional support_?”

York’s self-control snaps and he shouts back, “You agreed to come!”

“Because you _asked_!” Anger pounds in Tucker’s temples, in his throat. “Crying in my arms about your missing life partner or whatever, how was I supposed to say no?”

York looks like Tucker slapped him, stunned, before ire suffuses his expression. “Fuck you –”

“No, fuck _you._ ” Zipping up his duffel bag, Tucker slings it over his shoulder and strides forward, pushing York out of the way. “I’m out. I’m going home to Junior.”

“Tucker –” says York behind him, sounding stricken. “You can’t leave. I’m sorry.”

Tucker freezes with his hand on the door handle, cold prickling down his spine, chest tight. “What?”

“The Russians have seen you, they know you’re with me. If you go they’ll think you have the hard drive, and they’ll follow you to the States. They’ll hunt you down.” Regret colors York’s voice. “The only way out is through.”

Turning around slowly, Tucker says, “Are you fucking with me?” All he can hear is the roaring of blood in his ears.

“No,” says York, “I’m sorry –”

Tucker punches him in the face.

Grunting, York staggers back, putting a hand to his jaw. “Are you fucking kidding me?” shouts Tucker, shaking out his stinging knuckles. “I can’t go home now because some fucking _KGB goons_ are gonna be after me and my kid –”

“No!” York’s hands fly up in between him and Tucker, a red welt rising on his jaw already to join the collection of green and yellow bruises. “No, Tucker, you’ll – you’ll get to go home, I swear –” He looks at Tucker desperately, chest rising and falling. “The hard drive is only valuable as long as what’s on there is secret,” he says rapidly. “Once I find D, once we get somewhere we can blow the whistle safely, it won’t matter anymore.” He pauses, adds with painful sincerity, “I’ll make this right, Tucker, I swear.”

One hand fisted on the strap of his duffel bag, Tucker stares at York. Fear and anger and a bizarre urge to reassure York war in his mind, and he still has no goddamn idea how to respond when there’s a knock at the door and Wash says hesitantly, “Everything okay?”

Turning around, Tucker yanks open the door, and Wash takes a step back. “You talk to him,” says Tucker, striding out past Wash and across the hallway. “I’m sleeping with you guys tonight.”

In the end, what pisses Tucker off the most is this: he spends the night in Wash and Carolina’s bed, something he’s been fantasizing on and off for literal years, and is too upset to even enjoy it.

\--

“Hey, Sammy,” says Gates, wiping blood off his long knife. “I don’t think this guy can talk, do you?”

“I told you to stop calling me that,” grunts Sam, not looking up from the news feed on his phone. World going to hell, more so than usual. Sometimes he wants to put a bullet through the skull of every damn neo-Nazi and white supremacist on the planet. “Why do you say so?”

“Well, you heard him, he doesn’t scream, he makes that weird –” and Gates imitates a horrible, strained groan “– noise.” Leaning against the table next to Sam, he flips his knife thoughtfully. “I don’t think he can talk.”

Sighing, Sam looks up and over at Church. He’s slumped in his chair, held upright only by his bound arms, tangled hair hiding his face. “The hard drive requires voice activation to unlock.” Or so the popup when he plugged it into the computer indicated.

“Yeah.” Gates grimaces and flips the knife again, getting to his feet. “You think that’s a lie?”

Sam shrugs.

Huffing, Gates strides over to the slumped figure in the chair. Grabbing Church by the hair, he drags his head back, exposing his pale throat. Church struggles weakly, eyelids fluttering. “Was that a lie?” demands Gates, pressing the knife blade against Church’s throat. “Hey, asshole. Can you talk or not?” The blade pricks his skin, and red trickles down Church’s neck.

“Careful,” warns Sam. “We’re supposed to deliver them both alive.” This is not a client he wants to disappoint.

Gates rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Jesus.” He lets go of Church, whose head drops limply. “Taking all the fucking fun out of it.”


	7. Siktyakh, Two Years Ago

Scrubbing a towel through his damp hair, York comes up behind Delta, peering over his shoulder at the laptop screen. The oil radiator in the corner emits a steady, comforting heat – a necessity, considering the apartment they’re renting doesn’t have central heating. “Is it there?”

D shakes his head, chin propped on his folded hands. His glasses reflect the glow from the laptop. The desk in front of him is covered with the tech they dragged in to Siktyakh, computer and routers and VOIP converter and boosted Wifi hotspot and battery generator, black boxes and blinking lights and bundled cables.

Setting the damp towel aside – remnants of black hair dye stain it – York drags up the other chair and straddles it, his arms folded over the chair back. “C’mon,” he mutters, nerves tugging on his gut. The one part of their plan that everything hinges on, and it’s completely out of their control.

The plan started three months ago, when they first learned about the МАРВЕЛ facility where the supersoldier research was happening. Why break in if we can get them to let us in? York had offered. Take something down in their servers, pose as IT, go in and download all the data under the pretense of fixing it.

It could work, D agreed. Intercepting the call to the computer company for assistance – no problem. Acquiring uniforms and fake badges – simple. The problem is introducing the first error, considering whatever system they have is almost certainly air gapped so it can’t connect to any networks outside the facility anyway. An EMP, York had suggested, until Delta brought up that considering the facility was conducting biological experiments of a dubious nature, they probably didn’t want to take out the electricity indiscriminately. Fair point.

D mentioned the Stuxnet virus, which took down Iranian nuclear computers back in 2010, and they were on a secure network too. Except Stuxnet was released into the wild until it made its way through dumb luck onto the network, via CD or flash drive, and that took months and months. They don’t have that kind of time.

Hang in there, York had said. CD.

No one’s going to be stupid enough to plug a random flash drive into their secure network, D had signed with a snort.

You’d be surprised…

So they intercepted some mail, stole server company packaging, and mailed МАРВЕЛ a “critical security updates” package, GPS tracking included. The marker showed it as reaching the facility several hours ago; all they can do now is wait for someone to install their virus.

Sighing, York scratches at his jaw; he’s growing in his beard as part of his disguise, along with his dyed hair, and it itches. This one-room cement block apartment is driving him crazy.

 _Stop fidgeting,_ signs D. _It won’t make things go any faster._

“I know,” groans York, rubbing his hands over his face. “Just… God.”

The phone rings.

Popping his head up, York stares at the computer screen. The call, coming from МАРВЕЛ, is for the server company. D, whose hair (what’s left of it) has been bleached blond, raises his eyebrows at York.

“All right,” sighs York, wiping his palms on his jeans, and puts the headset on. Presses the button. Says in Russian, “ _Edge Servers, this is Dmitri Russakov, how can I help you?_ ”

“ _Yes, hello._ ” The curt voice on the other end is Anton Markosovich, head of IT at МАРВЕЛ. “ _I received a package from your company…?_ ”

“ _Yes, the critical software updates. Did you not receive our email?_ ”

“ _No, what email?_ ”

“ _Oh, my God…_ ” York’s voice cracks with anxiety not entirely feigned. “ _There was a major error discovered, you need to install these updates right away –”_

“ _What? What kind of error? Why wasn’t I informed?_ ” demands Markosovich.

“ _An email was sent out to all our clients, you should have received it – sir, you need to install these updates right away,_ ” says York, his throat dry. D watches him intently, chin propped on his folded hands. “ _It’s crucial to your security –_ ”

“ _Yes, yes, yes_ ,” snaps Markosovich. “ _In the future make sure this kind of oversight does not happen again._ ”

“ _Yes, sir, of course, sir –_ ”

Markosovich hangs up.

Exhaling heavily, York leans back in his seat, throwing the headset on the desk and scrubbing his hands through his hair. “Yeah,” he says, to D’s questioning look. “He bought it.”

D whisper-laughs in relief, dropping his head into the crook of his elbows. _Good job,_ he signs above his head.

They’re nowhere near home free, but York allows himself a giddy smile at a crucial stage achieved. Reaching out, he grabs D’s shoulder and shakes him affectionately. “We’re getting there, huh?”

D rewards him with a smile, but that quickly fades. _Olyenushkov expects us in Novosibirsk tomorrow._

“Yeah, I know.” Sighing, York rubs the back of his neck. He hasn’t gotten any word about whether Sergei’s left Russia or not. He hopes to God he has.

 _He will give us at least an extra day, just in case._ D frowns, long fingers running over his freshly-shorn hair. _Then it will take him at least three days to reach Siktyakh, unless he can get a helicopter._

“We’re not that high-priority,” says York. “Yet.”

Snorting, D signs, _Assuming Markosovich installs the software promptly, the virus should reach a critical state in two to three days. Which –_

“– only gives us a day or two before Olyenushkov shows up here. Fuck.” York scratches at his beard. “Well. We better move fast then, huh?”

_That we had better._

\--

МАРВЕЛ is a sprawling facility, low concrete buildings partially hidden by stands of pine. D drives their stolen white maintenance van up to the first security gate, this one just a chain link fence with two armed guards. In the passenger seat, York resists the urge to fidget. In addition to their dyed hair, he and D are both wearing contact lenses to change their eye color. York’s turn his eyes brown, and the one for his bad eye has the pupil painted in. So he looks normal, but is now completely blind on his left side, and it's making him twitchy as fuck.

“ _IDs, please,_ ” says a guard, coming up to their window. He looks and sounds bored.

D hands over both their falsified company IDs through the open window; a few seconds later, the guard hands them back. Gesturing them through, the guard steps back, and the other unchains and opens the gate.

Face blank, D drives forward, and the gate shuts behind them. “One down,” murmurs York.

The road continues for about half a mile, the sky above them icy gray, the pine trees so dark they’re almost black. D drives in focused silence, and York’s heart hammers in his throat, sweat gathering at his temples. Hurriedly, he pats it off on his sleeve before it drips into the makeup covering his scars.

 _Calm down,_ orders D.

“I’m trying,” growls York, and cracks open the window so cold air flows into the van cabin. Taking a deep breath, he rubs his sweaty palms over his thighs, over his gray overalls. It’s fine, he tells himself. You’re only breaking into super-secret, possibly illegal, facility with enough Geneva Convention violations to bring back WWII. What could go wrong?

The second gate is steel-reinforced, in an electric fence, and the guard booth has a gun turret on top. Right, thinks York, taking a deep breath, as D stops in front of it. Showtime.

Another armed guard approaches, dressed in camo and a black furry hat, carrying an AK-47. He takes his time, a small power play as he makes D and York wait. “ _Who are you?_ ” he asks.

York leans over D so he can speak through the open window. “ _Dmitri Russakov, and my partner, Leon Tserkovich. We are here to fix the computer problems._ ” D hands over their IDs.

Taking the IDs, the guard raises his eyebrows, making a show out of scrutinizing them. Looking over his shoulder back at the booth, he says, “ _Lukas, check the list for Dimitri Russakov and Leon Tserkovich._ ”

The guard in the booth nods and turns back to his computer, behind the scratched plexiglass. “ _What’s wrong with the computers?_ ” asks the guard on the ground.

“ _There was an error with the security upgrade._ ” York leans against the dashboard, talking around D.

“ _Hm._ ” The guard’s gray eyes slide from him to D. “ _What about this one, why doesn’t he talk?_ ”

“ _Deaf and dumb,_ ” says York, and grins conspiratorially at the guard. “ _The boss likes to send him to secret projects like this because he won’t overhear anything, you know? He’s very good with computers._ ”

The guard snorts in agreement. “ _Is he retarded?_ ”

York’s blood boils but D’s hand digs into his leg painfully, holding him, and York hangs onto a tight smile. “ _No, just very smart._ ”

“ _My aunt’s friend has a kid like that,_ ” says the guard, idly looking over D’s ID. “ _Could do calculus at age nine but can’t talk like a normal fucking person, you know?_ ”

York is spared from having to come up with a response by Lukas, who calls over, “ _They’re on the list, let them through._ ”

Raising his eyebrows, the guard reaches up to hand the IDs back to York and D. “ _Looks like you’re clear,_ ” he says. “ _Fix those computers quickly, you hear? Security is very important._ ”

“ _Of course,_ ” says York, as D shifts out of park and the gates slowly draw open. “ _Have a good day._ ”

Nodding, the guard waves them through.

D drives forward slowly; they’re entering the complex of white concrete buildings now. They barely clear the guards when York bursts out, “What the _fuck_ is wrong with that guy, why would he say that –”

 _You need to control yourself,_ signs D. _This is too important to jeopardize over a slur._

“Hey, I held it together, didn’t I?” grumbles York. “Fucking Christ, though…”

 _Keep it together._ D takes a left turn, following directions to the main building where the servers are housed. The facility feels strange and ghostlike; they pass no one on the streets except more armed guards. A couple more turns, and the building reveals itself, distinguished from the others because it’s two stories tall. To get to the parking they pass through a third guarded check, though this is just an electric parking gate and the guard waves them through without even checking.

D parks in front of the building, among the handful of other cars (a mix of gleaming luxury cars and aging sedans). Cyrilic letters above the door spell out ADMINISTRATIVE SERVICES CENTER.

Silently, York and D exit the van, opening the back doors so they can take out their duffle bags of tools. York slings the strap over his shoulder, the weight of the tech inside digging into his shoulder. For final confirmation, he looks over at D.

D smiles slightly, his eyes strange and blue. _Are you worried?_ he signs.

The tightness across his chest demands York tell the truth. “Of course,” he says with a half-laugh. “This is fucking insane.”

 _Do not be._ D hesitates, and then puts a hand on York’s bicep, his touch slowly sinking in like walking on ocean sand. _I will not let you fall._

York’s stomach catches like he missed a step. With a smile, he clasps D on the shoulder, squeezing briefly. “Thanks, buddy.”

_Now let’s go._

Hefting their bags, they close the van doors and enter the building. Black-uniformed security guards scan York and D with metal detectors and search through their bags before nodding them into the main atrium, where Markosovich is waiting for them, pacing impatiently. “ _About time,_ ” he snaps. He is a tall man, greying and balding, with a paunch. “ _Hurry up. Your stupid security upgrade has been fucking over all our timekeeping._ ”

“ _I am so sorry, it must be causing an issue with how the system handles timestamps,_ ” says York, following after Markosovich as he leads him and D back into the building. “ _We will fix it right away._ ”

“ _You had better, my fucking job is on the line._ ” Yellow nicotine stains his fingers. Perfect, thinks York. He’ll need a smoke break.

They pass through white-walled and dark-carpeted hallways, the lighting cool and fluorescent. Soon they reach a door that Markosovich has to swipe his badge to open, and then York and D are in.


	8. Paris, Present Day

The warehouse door bursts open, Gates striding in. “We gotta move,” he says, going straight to Church and kneeling to slice through his duct tape bindings. “Russians are onto us.”

Sam gets to his feet, grabbing his pistol. “How soon?”

“Hard to tell, but they know we’re in the city.” Grabbing Church by the collar, Gates drags him to his feet; Church staggers and nearly collapses, hair hanging over his face. “Pull yourself together, Delta, Christ.”

As he starts gathering their weapons and other supplies into their duffel bags, Sam asks, “What about Elahi? He should have the address by now.”

“Leave a breadcrumb trail for him –”

“And have the Russians breathing down our necks?”

“Well, be _smart_ about it,” says Gates, rolling his eyes, and shoves Church towards Sam. “Here. You take our little friend to the car, I’ll figure something out.”

\--

Tucker drops his duffel bag on top of York’s blanket-covered legs, startling him awake. “All right,” says Tucker. “The only way out is through? Then let’s get this motherfucking over with.”

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, York squints up at him groggily. “Great,” he says, and clears his throat. “I’m, uh – I’m glad –”

“I’m not doing it for you,” snaps Tucker.

Grumbling, York flops back down. “Join the club,” he mutters.

\--

The note the priest handed York contains an address. A real one, it seems. For a group of warehouses on the edge of Paris. “This is it,” says York, staring at the map on the laptop screen. “This is where they want us.”

“Springing the trap,” mutters Carolina. Her hand finds Wash’s and grips it tight.

Tucker frowns, crossing his arms. “How do we know that they’ll have Delta?”

Sighing, York rubs his hand over his face. “We don’t,” he admits, sinking down onto the bed; Carolina shifts over to make room for him. “I’d be surprised if they did. But this is where we go. If we can get them, they’ll have answers.” Tucker doesn’t ask how York plans to get those answers; he doesn’t want to know. It doesn’t matter, anyway.

“They’ll be set up for an ambush, but if we can turn it around and get the drop on them…” murmurs Wash. “Unfortunately, recon opportunities will be limited –”

“Send me in,” says Carolina.

York and Wash both turn to her, and a sudden strange panic pricks Tucker. Carolina raises her eyebrows, unfazed. “They don’t know who I am,” she says. “Let’s be honest, they’re less likely to be suspicious of me than any of you. I can wander through, pretend I’m lost –”

“And if they shoot first and ask questions later?” demands York.

“Then they lose a potential source of information –”

“Okay, let me rephrase.” York glares at her. “And if they hit you with a dart gun and you wake up duct-taped to a chair in a basement –”

“We can’t go in blind,” she counters. “Better only one of us gets grabbed than all four –”

From his post at the desk, Tucker eyes the three heads bent over the computer, bronze, red, and black, shining like precious gems in the yellow lamplight. “One of us needs to go in first, but that doesn’t mean they should go in alone.”

The three heads turn towards him. “What are you thinking?” Carolina asks.

\--

Tucker knocks on Wash and Carolina’s hotel door. “Hey, you guys ready?” he says. “If we wait any longer I’m gonna have to sit on York to keep him from bolting.”

The door opens, revealing Wash, dressed from neck to toe in black TAC gear. The pants are bulky but the top tight-fitting, highlighting his broad shoulders and the hard V of his waist. “Dude, holy shit,” says Tucker. “You’re like Asian Captain America.”

Wash throws his head back and laughs. “You should tell ‘Lina that.”

“Tell me what?” She appears behind Wash, resting her chin on his shoulder and her arms around his waist, and winking at Tucker.

“That your boyfriend is a goddamn superhero, apparently.” Tucker looks Wash up and down appreciatively, and he knows Carolina sees him looking, and a sly, satisfied smile tugs at her lips.

In the hallway, a door slams. “Can we _go_ already?” snaps York, dressed in a dark jacket over a grey hoodie, jeans, and sneakers, hood pulled over his head sunglasses hiding his scarred eye, his backpack slung over his shoulder. When he sees Wash, he snorts. “Inconspicuous.”

“Yeah, you don’t look suspicious at all,” retorts Wash, pulling on a sweatshirt over his gear. Carolina slides past him into the hallway, her workout jacket zipped up to her chin and her yoga pants hugging her ass.

Tucker, who is wearing both a scarf and a leather jacket (it’s cold, okay) says, “I feel like I'm overdressed.”

“Nah, you’re fine, you’re the bard,” says York absentmindedly, adjusting his earpiece. He doesn’t realize they’re all staring at him until he looks up. “What?” he says. “I’m the rogue, Carolina’s the cleric, Wash is the fighter... never mind.”

Wash snorts. “Let’s go.”

They could make it there with public transportation, but York argued for a car (less trackable, faster for a getaway), and Wash agreed. So they get into the grey sedan Wash checked out from the FBI, winding through the maze of Paris streets until the buildings dwindle down into a beige industrial landscape under the pale blue sky. When they’re still several blocks away from the address, Wash pulls over and parks.

“Okay,” he says, twisting around to look over his shoulder at Carolina, who sits next to Tucker in the back seat.. “Ready?”

She nods, fitting earbuds into her ears and tugging a sweatband over her head. Her taut, focused expression lifts Tucker’s heart like an adrenaline rush. “Stay close,” she says, and leaves the car, shutting the door behind her.

Throat tight, Tucker leans over to press his face to the car window to watch Carolina jog down the street, her ponytail bouncing. In approximately seven minutes she’ll reach the warehouse complex. It’ll take her another twelve minutes to circle the perimeter. Then another seven minutes to come back.

Twenty-six minutes, total.

A lot can happen in twenty-six minutes.

Carolina turns a corner and disappears, but Tucker can still hear her steady breathing over the communicator in his ear, the rhythm of her footsteps on sidewalk. Wash stays with one hand on the driver’s wheel and another on the ignition key, gaze focused ahead; in the passenger seat, York leans back against the door, chin resting on his hand, the jiggling of his leg making the whole car shake.

“Approaching the address,” she says breathlessly. “No movement so far.”

“Keep an eye out for the car,” mutters York.

She keeps running. Tucker shifts in his seat, heart pounding as if he’s running with her. “Almost at the perimeter,” she pants. “It’s a chain link fence, ten feet tall. I’m seeing one gate, with a chain lock.”

Tucker asks, “No people?”

“Not that I see.”

On the steering wheel, Wash’s hand tightens and relaxes, finger by finger. “Okay, well, keep moving,” says York, shifting restlessly –

“I _am_ moving,” hisses Carolina. “I’m at the perimeter.”

Looking up, Tucker meets Wash’s eyes in the rearview mirror, the skin around them taut, his straight brows furrowed. “Circling now,” says Carolina under her breath. “Still not seeing anyone, or the car.” Pant, pant, pant. “Oh, no – wait – two black Jeeps with French plates, parked by one of the buildings.”

Terse, York says, “Can you see anyone?”

“No.”

Thirteen minutes. Halfway. Tucker exhales slowly.

Carolina keeps running, for several more minutes. “Still not seeing any other people, or cars,” she says. “All the warehouses look the same. I couldn’t tell you which one they’re in.”

Frowning, York shifts restlessly, tendons in his neck standing out. “I’m turning the last corner,” pants Carolina. “Not really seeing anything else. Should I go in?”

Tucker yelps, “No way, are you crazy –”

“ _No_ ,” says Wash, grip on the steering wheel tightening until his knuckles go white. “Carolina, it’s too risky –”

“It’ll be fine,” she says breezily, still running. “There’s no one around.”

Heart in his throat, Tucker says, “And if there’s someone in a window with a sniper rifle –”

“I won’t get hit.”

“Carolina, don’t –” insists Wash.

York rubs at the back of his neck, his jaw hard. “Let her, she’s capable,” he murmurs.

“That’s not the problem!” snaps Tucker, turning on him. Carolina breathes heavy but steady, her rhythmic footfalls not breaking pace, in his mind’s eye running bright and beautiful towards death – “We don’t know who’s in there, what’s in there –”

York snarls, “Exactly, and she’s going to do what she said she would and find out –”

“Stop fighting,” orders Carolina, and they both fall silent. “David. Do you trust me?”

Exhaling slowly, Wash leans back in his seat, staring out into the middle distance. “Yes,” he says evenly. “But I’m putting the keys in the ignition and I’m coming after you when I think you need help, not when you do.”

“That’s fair,” says Carolina. “I’m going in.”

“Jesus,” mutters Tucker, rubbing a hand over his face. She’s gonna get shot. She’s gonna get fucking shot.

Metal rattles and Carolina’s breath hitches – she’s climbing the fence. A _whoosh_ and a _thump,_ and Carolina says, “I’m in.”

“Keep an eye on those Jeeps,” says York, brow furrowed.

“They’re over on the other side,” breathes Carolina. “I’m going to see if I can get into one of these buildings.”

York quips, “Need a lockpicker?”

“I’ll let you know,” snorts Carolina. “Maybe I can jimmy open one of the windows – ah, shit.”

Blood running cold, Tucker sits up straight; Wash’s hand hovers on the ignition. “Carolina?” says Tucker.

“Shh,” she whispers.

Tucker holds his breath, not daring to move, as if he could disturb Carolina. Over the communicator, he hears distant shouting: male voices, with a distinctly Slavic accent –

“Oh, fuck,” breathes Tucker, looking over at York, whose expression is as still and hard as carved bronze. “York…”

“Go,” says York, and Wash starts the engine.

“Carolina,” mutters Tucker, buckling himself in as Wash revs the car into the street, “if you can, talk to us, what’s going on –”

But she doesn’t say anything, just her breathing, high and unsteady, in Tucker’s ear. Which means the Russians are close enough that they can hear her. “We’re on our way,” says Wash, tearing towards the warehouses. “Try and get to the perimeter if you can.”

“Hey!” shouts one of the Russians, presumably at Carolina. “Hello! Where are you going?”

The car turns the corner with a squeal of brakes, someone honking angrily at them. Tucker braces himself against the car door, buildings flashing past the window. Expression grim, York pulls his gun out and slams the ammo clip in with a solid _schick._ When he sees Tucker watching him, he raises his eyebrows and says, “You got yours?”

Carolina doesn’t say anything, but her breathing is faster, harsher. “Hey!” shouts the Russian again, angry now. “Come back here!”

Tucker shows his gun to York, loads it, puts it back in his belt (safety on!). He can feel every pound of his heart in his chest, every swallow in his throat. I’m coming home for Junior, he tells himself. I’m doing this for him. “We’re almost there,” says Wash tersely. “Hang on.”

“I’m gonna need a ride,” mutters Carolina, and starts running.

A gunshot bursts both outside the car and over the communicators, loud enough to make Tucker swear and Wash jerk on the steering wheel, the car skidding as he shouts, “Carolina –”

“I’m fine!” she yells, panting as she runs. “Need pickup on the south side of the complex –”

“I need to go in,” mutters York.

Tucker stares at him in utter disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“They could have D!”

The car screeches to a halt at the curb and York throws his door open, jumping out to the sidewalk before Wash even kills the engine. “York!” Tucker yells after him, but he’s already sprinting, and before Tucker can think he leaps out after him.

“Tucker!" Wash shouts, but Tucker’s already sprinting after York. They reach the chain link fence, leaping at it to climb up and over. Tucker’s arm muscles burn as he hauls himself higher, the cold metal digging into his fingers. “What the _fuck_?” demands Wash in his ear.

“Sorry,” pants Tucker. “Someone’s gotta go with him –”

Tucker throws his legs over the fence and drops. As he hits the ground, ankles screaming, Carolina races towards them. Several large men in dark colors chase after her, guns in hand. Cold dry air stinging his mouth and nose, Tucker staggers. “Oi!” he shouts, waving his hands. “Comrades!”

They turn towards him, disdainful. The one in front is the guy who intercepted them outside of church. “Tucker, what are you doing,” hisses Carolina –

“Get to the car,” says Tucker.

The lead Russian grins. “Привет, Фокстрот!” he shouts. “Я вижу, ты привел своих друзей!”

“Вы не хотите их!” York calls back, voice harsh. “Твоя проблема со мной –”

Carolina reaches the fence, and another Russian aims his gun at her –

In a flash York draws and fires, and the Russian collapses with a spray of blood.

“RUN!” roars York, firing again, and Tucker turns and runs as fast as he possibly can. Draw them away from Carolina, is all he can think, and he wheels around the corner of a warehouse, feet pounding, lungs bursting, he hears gunshots but no cries of pain – 

In his ear, the car engine revs and a door slams. “In the car,” pants Carolina. “Wash, go –”

“But –”

“Just go, we’ll catch up with you!” yells York, slamming up into the side of the building text to Tucker. Static electricity snaps between them. Eyes wide, he grabs Tucker’s arm. “All right?”

“Yeah,” pants Tucker, checking his gun is still in his waistband. “Where –”

More gunshots burst loud beside them, striking chips off the asphalt pavement. “Run,” snarls York, and they take off. Dashing between the bright sunlight between two buildings, they careen into the shaded side of the next warehouse.

A bullet zips by Tucker, high-pitched, and he yelps and flattens himself against the stuccoed wall. “We gotta get out of the open,” he gasps –

There’s a door in the wall. Tucker runs to it, yanks on the handle, but it doesn’t budge. “Move,” orders York, and Tucker spins away and covers his ears as York fires at the lock, _BANG-BANG-BANG._ The door swings open and Tucker dashes in after York, the door swinging closed after them.

Inside the warehouse is cool and dim, squares of sunlight falling in from the high windows. It’s practically empty, only a couple of disused crates sitting in a corner. But Tucker barely has a chance to catch his breath before the door bursts open and Russians run in. York fires two shots (one man drops) and grabs Tucker and throws them into the office, driving his shoulder into the door to shut it and locking it.

Tucker looks around. There are no other doors. No windows. “Fuck.”

And the Russians know they’re trapped, too. One of them shouts something from beyond the door, mocking and sing-song. “Great,” pants Tucker, glaring at York, who leans against the door with his head bowed. “Now what –”

Bullets strike the door, not piercing it, but it’s enough to make Tucker and York leap back. “Over here,” mutters York, grabbing Tucker’s arm, and they hunker down behind the desk at the back of the room. York checks the ammo in his gun, slams it back in, and sits down under the desk with a sigh. “We’ll figure it out,” he mutters.

His free hand is in his jeans pocket, fiddling with something, and curiosity gets the better of Tucker. “What is that? In your pocket?”

“Hm? Oh.” York pulls out his hand with a string of gold and wooden beads wound through his fingers. “Rosary. It was my Nona’s.”

Tucker frowns at it. Beyond the desk, the door _thuds_ as the Russians try and kick it down. “Didn’t realize you had gone religious.”

Self-consciously, York laughs, fingers slipping over the beads. His other hand still holds the gun, loosely aimed up at the underside of the desk. “Well, I wouldn’t say that.” _Thud,_ goes a kick against the door. Gaze growing distant, York mutters to himself, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed are thou among women…” His words blur together, too fast and soft for Tucker to understand, until York stumbles over his tongue and grins, shamefaced, at Tucker. _Thud. Thud._ “Starting to forget it. Maybe I should have gone to confession again, huh? Cleanse my soul before…”

Ice forms in Tucker’s stomach. “No,” he says. “We’re getting out of this.” _Thud._

York smiles, tired. “You are,” he says.

It’s not a bullet, but it knocks the breath out of Tucker like one, punching a hole through his sternum. He can only stare at York, at the weary curve of his lip, at the easy grace of his hands, the bruise on his jaw from when Tucker punched him last night, and his soul cries, _No. You’re not leaving._

“Oi!” shouts a Russian from beyond the door. “Americans! Foxtrot! Come out now, before –”

Gunfire cuts him off, rapid and deafening, and the office window shatters. York and Tucker duck under the desk, arms around their heads, as bullets fly and men scream. And then – silence.

Tucker stays frozen, his shaking breath loud in his ears in the echoing stillness. He looks to York, who meets his eyes, apprehensive. “Wash?” whispers Tucker.

“What?” says Wash via the communicator, and Tucker jumps – he’d forgotten he's wearing it. “Are you guys okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re fine, but –” Holding his breath, Tucker peers out from behind the corner of the desk. The door is riddled with the backside of bullet impacts, the windows shattered. “I don’t know –”

The door handle jiggles, but stays locked. “Hey, boys, mind opening the door?” says a voice that Tucker hasn’t heard in a decade and a half, and his heart leaps like he went over waterfall. But that’s nothing compared to the desperate joy and disbelief on York’s face as he scrambles out from under the desk and onto his feet.

“ _Tex?_ ”


	9. Siktyakh, Two Years Ago

Ten server stacks reach the ceiling, black and starred with blinking lights, a steady whirring filling the frigid air. A desk with a computer stands in one corner, and Markosovich gestures York and D roughly towards it. “ _Go on,”_ he grunts. 

“ _Yes, sir.”_ York sets his bag down on the desk as D pulls up the one chair in front of the console. When D clicks the mouse a couple times, the lock screen pops up. “ _Could you unlock the computer for us, please...?”_  

Expression sour, Markosovich squeezes between them and types in his username and password. D’s bright gaze is fixed on the keyboard, mentally logging the authentication. Not that they’ll need it, but it’s good to have all the same. 

“ _I suppose you need access to the servers as well,_ ” grumbles Markosovich, opening command prompt.  

That would be nice, York thinks, keeping his face blank.  

Finished, Markosovich steps back, and D scoots his chair back up to the computer. York sits down on the desk, one leg dangling casually. Now they just need to pretend to fix the problem, stalling until Markosovich inevitably steps outside for a cigarette… 

Digging in his slacks pocket, Marksovich pulls out a cigarette from the packet, puts it between his lips, and brings a lighter up to his mouth, clicking as he tries to get a flame.  

Panic prickles down York’s spine but he doesn’t let it show on his face. He looks down at D, who focuses on the computer screen, fingers rapidly moving across the keyboard. Markosovich sighs, and the smell of cigarette smoke fills the room. That can’t be good for the server fans, thinks York.  

“ _What are you doing?_ ” asks Markosovich.  

York glances down at the screen, and with a jolt of adrenaline realizes D’s going ahead with the data scrape anyway. “ _Scraping your server to find the corrupted files, sir,_ ” York says. “ _This could take some time._ ” 

Puffing on his cigarette, Markosovich snorts smoke out of his nostrils. “ _Fine._ ” 

His palms start to sweat again, and York surreptitiously wipes his hands on his overalls. D’s face is tight with concentration as he leans over to grab the portable hard drive out of the bag on the desk. “ _What’s that?_ ” demands Markosovich.  

Swallowing, York says, “ _That’s our drive with the patch. We’ll need to plug it in to install the fix –”_  

Sniffing, Markosovich holds out his hand. “ _Let me see that._ ” 

York hands over the hard drive. It’s not much of anything, roughly twice the size of a pack of cards, the shell a matte gray. Shaggy eyebrows raised, Markosovich turns the hard drive over, scrutinizing it. “ _All right,_ ” he grunts, and gives it back.  

Breathing an internal sigh of relief, York places it back on the desk next to D. Christ, they’re lucky this guy is bad at his job. With his back turned to Marksovich so he can’t see, York signs,  _You_ _got it?_  

D nods, once, the corner of his mouth turning up in a tiny smile. Taking the hard drive, he plugs it into the computer and resumes typing.  

It’ll probably take a good fifteen minutes to de-encrypt and download all the files, if not half an hour. York settles in to wait. But maybe five minutes in, and Markosovich gets restless, shifting from foot to foot and frowning at D. “ _What’s he doing? Why’s this taking so long?_ ” 

“ _He is still looking for the corrupted files. There is a lot of data to search through, and we have to be very careful,_ ” says York.  

Grumbling, Markosovich taps his cigarette out in an ashtray.  

The minutes stretch on and on. Despite the chill of air conditioning, sweat collects under York’s collar and armpits. The whirring of many fans and the click-clacking of D’s typing fill the room with white noise.  _How much longer?_ signs York. 

D shrugs, points to the two key, and then the zero. Twenty minutes. All right.  

“ _We apologize for the_ _inconvenience_ ,” says York. As long as he keeps Markosovich talking, the less likely he is to get bored and impatient and start asking questions. “ _The head of my department will be sending you a letter of apology, personally.”_  

Markosovich looks somewhat mollified. “ _This should have never happened in the first place.”_  

“ _Yes, sir, I agree._ ” 

“ _Why didn’t I receive any initial notice_?”  

Clearing his throat, York shifts to a more comfortable seat on the desk. “ _There was an error with the client that sent out the emails. About fifty customers were not notified, but you were the priority in receiving a fix._ ” 

“ _Hm,_ ” grunts Markosovich, grinding out his cigarette stub in the ashtray. “ _Well, you better not fuck it up again._ ” 

“ _We will not._ ” 

Sighing, Markosovich shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “ _How much longer now?_ ” 

York taps D on the shoulder, points to his imaginary watch on his wrist, and jerks his head at Markosovich. Amusement glints in his eyes, and D flashes five fingers, three times. “ _Fifteen minutes,_ ” says York.  

Markosovich checks his own watch with a grumble and fishes out another cigarette. 

As the minutes tick by, York tries not to fidget, or keep glancing at the computer screen to check progress. But at one point, D sucks in a quiet, stifled breath, and his eyes narrow. 

Frowning, York leans towards him and signs,  _What_ _is it?_  

D shakes his head minutely, signs back,  _I’ll tell you later._  But a new tension pulls on his jaw and neck.  

More time crawls past. York tries to make small talk with Markosovich, but it quickly becomes clear that he no longer has patience for chitchat. So York sits without words but not in silence, surrounded by whirring fans and humming computers, every nerve in his body drawn to breaking. And then, at last, when York’s seriously starting to consider bumming a cigarette of of Markosovich just for something to do, D sighs and leans back in his chair, stretching his wrists. York raises his eyebrows at him. “ _Done_?” 

Looking pleased with himself, D nods, and returns to the keyboard. 

“ _What is that_?” says Markosovich, attention turned back on them. “ _Did you say you’re done_?” 

“ _Almost, sir._ ”York works hard to keep the giddy grin off his face. “ _Just some final touches._ ” Disable the virus they introduced (temporarily, at least), wipe the server log of what they did, enter a fake log of what they were supposed to be doing. “ _But your servers are now protected and working correctly._ ” 

“ _Took you long enough,_ ”grumbles Markosovich, but his shoulders slump in clear relief.  

With another nod to York, D disconnects the hard drive that now contains all of МАРВЕЛ’s secrets, carefully wrapping the cord around it, putting it back in its case, and placing it in the bag. And that’s it. The most valuable, dangerous thing York’s ever owned, casually resting in a canvas duffel bag full of assorted IT gadgets and junk. “ _Well, we will now be going,_ ”says York, getting to his feet and slinging the bag over his shoulder. “ _Thank you for your patience._ ” 

Markosovich gestures magnanimously; now that the problem is solved, he can afford to be gracious. “ _I will escort you out._ ” 

Getting to his feet, D grabs his bag and walks out with York, after Markosovich. Not out yet, York reminds himself, as they follow Markosovich’s broad back down the fluorescent-lit hallway. You’re still not in the clear. 

As they enter the building lobby, three people walk through from the outside. Two are large men, in guard uniforms augmented with bullet-proof vests. But the man they flank is tall and leanly-muscled, dressed in a black uniform somewhere between a bodysuit and tactical gear. His skin is pale, his hair so blond it’s white, and the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones look carved from marble. “ _Where are you taking this one_?” asks Markosovich. 

“ _Psychic evaluation,_ ” one of the guards responds. 

Good-natured, Markosovich says, “ _Poor bastard._ ” 

Chuckling, the guard pushes the pale man forward. As the trio passes York and D, the man looks back over his shoulder at them. His silvery eyes focus on York with a gaze as fierce as a hawk, both haunting and hollow, and a chill runs down York's spine. He can’t be older than twenty, York thinks, with sudden horror. Jesus. He’s just a kid.  

Markosovich walks York and D to the doors. “ _Thank you,_ ”he says, shaking York’s hand. “ _Give my regards to Mikhailov._ ” 

“ _I will._ ”And with that York turns and exits, out under the cloudy grey sky, D at his right hand and the hard drive in his bag. He doesn’t dare talk as they cross to their van and get in; as D starts the engine and they pull out on the road; as they pass through the inner perimeter and the guard booth. Not until the outer chain link gate has closed behind them does York let out a huge groan of relief and slump back in his seat. “Hooo _ooo_ ly SHIT.” 

D snorts, eyes focused on the road, but he smiles too.  

“I think that was one of them,” says York, watching the pale road unfold in front of them. “One of the supersoldiers. That white-haired guy we passed.” 

Frowning, D nods. 

“Jesus fucking Christ. Okay.” Still not over yet. They need to return to their apartment, grab their stuff, and get the hell out of dodge. Or Siktyakh.  

The drive into Siktyakh is uneventful. But as they’re loading their bags into a freshly-stolen car, the hard drive now stowed in York’s pocket (where he’s so aware of it he swears he can feel it burning), D pauses and signs,  _I saw something while I was scraping the data._  

Right. That little moment he’d had. York shuts the trunk and says, “What?” 

Hands in his jacket pockets, D considers, his breath frosting in the air. Snow begins to fall, little flakes drifting down to his head and shoulders.  _Correspondence,_ he signs at last, gloved fingers moving slowly.  _With Americans. Two of them in particular._ His eyes, restored to their normal green, pierce York.  _Aiden Price and Dr. Leonard Church._  

York exhales slowly in the afternoon quiet of their deserted parking lot. “Your uncle?” he says, knowing the answer. 

D nods. 

“Fuck.” Not knowing what else to say, York continues, “I – I’m sorry, man –” 

Shrugging, D signs,  _I don’t really care about him._ It’s only partially a lie.  

“Yeah, I know, but still. Family.” Reaching over, York rubs at the back of D’s neck, and after a stiff second D sighs and drops his head, leaning into York’s touch. “Shit. Carolina.”  

D snaps his head up, eyes hard.  _We can’t tell her,_  he signs quickly. 

“She’s gonna find out one way or the other, and better from us than the news –” 

 _Not yet. Not until we have the full story and are ready to release it to the world. The more people we tell beforehand, the more we jeopardize our secrecy and security._  

“Yeah,” sighs York. “You’ve got a point.” Drawing his jacket tighter around him, he circles around to the passenger door, D mirroring him on the other side of the car. “Let’s go.” 


	10. Paris - Marseilles, Present Day

" _Tex?"_

Cautiously, Tucker crawls out from under the desk as York runs to the office door and unlocks it, yanking it open. By the time Tucker gets to his feet York and Tex are wrapped tight around each other, rocking slightly, York’s face buried in her shoulder. “I am so fucking glad to see you, you have no idea...” he says, muffled.

“Don’t get all weepy on me,” says Tex fondly, rubbing his back. 

York laughs damply and says something Tucker doesn’t catch. He and Tex hang onto each other for a few moments longer before kissing each other on the cheek and breaking apart. “Hi, Tucker,” says Tex, smiling at him.

Unable to help grinning back, Tucker strides forward and hugs her. She hugs him back, grip strong and firm. “Thanks,” says Tucker. “You saved our asses.” 

“Don’t mention it.” Tex steps back from him. She’s changed since college, too, in much the same way York has. Her skin is tanned and freckled, old white scars marking her cheek and temple and corner of her lip, the lines of her face and neck gone lean and hard. Her hair, several shades darker than the bright blonde Tucker remembers, has been cropped to above her ears. But her eyes are the same steely gray. “I’d ask if you had an escape plan, but I know better.” 

Wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand, York laughs unsteadily. “I was working on that.” 

“Tucker?” says Carolina over the communicator, voice like iron. “Is that my sister?”

Oh, shit. Clearing his throat, Tucker says, “Yeah.” Tex watches him with bright, guarded eyes.

Carolina exhales, very shaky. “Okay.”

“We’re back at the hotel,” says Wash. “We’ll sign off the comms. Let us know when you’re back?”

“Will do,” promises Tucker. Taking the communicator earpiece out, he switches it off and puts it in his pocket. “Talking to Wash,” he says, in answer to Tex’s raised eyebrows. “And... Carolina.” 

Carefully, Tex says, “Ah,” and smiles slightly. “Come on, let’s go.” She wears a black leather jacket over a dark green shirt, and black jeans and boots, and as she turns to leave, Tucker sees a fucking AR-15 slung across her back. 

“How did you know to find us?” asks Tucker, hurrying after her.

“I’ve been keeping an on you guys – well, on York – for a while.” Tex strides through the office door and oh God, that’s a lot of dead people on the floor and a lot of blood. Swallowing hard, Tucker resolutely keeps his gaze straight ahead as they cross the warehouse, breathing through his mouth. “But actually I was here to find Delta. The rest was just good timing.” 

Quietly, York asks, “How long?”

“Hm?”

“How long have you been following me?” York looks hurt, his eyebrows pulling up and together. 

“Not  _following_ , just... keeping an eye out,” sighs Tex. “You know.” 

York grimaces, keeping pace with her. “You could have said  _something,_  you could have let me know you were around, I could have used you at my side –”

“I would have come if you really needed me,” says Tex softly. “I  _did_ come.” Wounded frustration crosses` York’s face, but he doesn’t say anything in response.  

They reach the door and Tex holds her hand out, stopping York and Tucker. Opening the door slowly, Tex peers out around the frame, swinging her rifle back around into her hands. “Okay,” she says, motioning them forward. Tucker follows her out into the crystalline sunlight. 

“Delta,” says York, looking frantically around. “We need to find him –”

Tex strides towards the fence gate. “He’s not here.”

“Okay, well, we need to find whoever we were supposed to meet –”

“Also not here.” 

York opens his mouth, frustrated again, but before he can say anything Tucker jumps in with, “And do you know where they are?”

A small, proud smile curls Tex's lips. “Yes.” 

She explains as she drives them back to the hotel in her black Jeep. “Two guys have Delta, the ones you saw on the airport security cam. Their names are Samuel ‘Locus’ Ortez and Isaac ‘Felix’ Gates, professional assassins, bounty hunters, and all-around mercenaries. I’m still working on who hired them. Not the Russians, at least.” They stop at a red light and she leans over York in the passenger seat to open the glove compartment, pulling out a packet of gum. “I found them at the warehouse late yesterday, I’ve been casing them ever since to make sure there wouldn’t be any surprises when I hit them. Well, this morning something got their wind up – probably the Russians, come to think of it – and they split. Left Paris. But I got a tracker on their car.” She pops a piece of gum in her mouth and grins at York, holding the packet out at him. “Gum?”

He shakes his head, frowning. Twisting around to face the back seat, Tex offers the gum to Tucker, and he accepts, taking a stick. “Where are they going?” Tucker asks.

“South.” The light changes to green and Tex steps on the gas, the engine roaring. “Haven’t stopped anywhere yet, but eventually they’ll hit the coast, and if they take a boat out of here we’ve got a whole other set of problems. I was going to follow, but then I realized you guys were coming here, and so were the Russians, and figured I’d better stick around…”

“I’m glad you did,” murmurs York.

“Yeah,” says Tucker, slumping back in his seat, cool mint spreading through his mouth. His heart still pounds with residual adrenaline. “No kidding.” 

They drive back along through the Parisian streets, elaborate stone facades rising above them, tinted gold with late afternoon sunlight. “So what’s the plan now?” asks Tex, too lightly.

“Back to the hotel,” says York quietly, and her shoulders tense. “Tex.”

“What?” she snaps. 

“Don’t bail.” 

Abruptly the tension drains out of her, and she sighs, snapping her gum. “I wasn’t going to.” 

Tucker knows he should feel sorry for Tex, should be glad she’s back (be glad she’s alive), but all he can think about is Carolina. This can’t be easy for her, on top of everything else. At least she has Wash… and a sudden longing to be at Carolina’s side punches Tucker in the gut so hard his throat closes. She has Wash, but he should be there too.

Probably to avoid further conversation, Tex switches the radio on to some godawful French pop station. By the time they get to the hotel, Tucker is about ready to claw his ears off to make the nasal warbling stop. As they take the elevator up to their rooms, Tex has both arms tightly folded across her chest, and she chews savagely on a fresh piece of gum. She’s taken her jacket off, and her arms and shoulders ripple with hard muscles. A long, pale scar bisects her upper left arm. “It’ll be fine,” says York quietly, a hand on her lower back, and at least she doesn’t throw him off. 

“Yeah,” huffs Tex. “I know.” 

The elevator grinds to a halt with a ding, and the doors open. Tucker steps out into the hallway, heading straight for Wash and Carolina’s room. He’s barely knocked once before Carolina yanks the door open, her expression way. “Hey,” is all Tucker has time to say before York and Tex walk up behind him, and he steps into the room to get out of the way, joining Wash. 

For a long, long moment, Tex and Carolina size each other up, York hovering in the hallway. “Allie,” says Carolina at last, voice trembling despite her best efforts.

A smile quirks Tex’s lips. “Hi, ‘Lina,” she says. “Long time, no see.” 

Carolina lunges forward – Tucker starts forward, expecting anger – and grabs Tex and pulls her tight into a hug. 

With a startled laugh, Tex wraps her arms around Carolina, squeezing her around the waist. “Missed you too,” she says, and drops a kiss on the top of Carolina’s head. Carolina squeezes her back, hard enough that Tex grunts, and breaks away with a toss of her ponytail. 

“What happened to you?” Carolina demands, and though Tucker can’t see her face he can hear the tears. “Where have you been?”

Sighing, Tex runs a hand through her shortened hair. “Traveling,” she says, and Carolina scoffs, exasperated. “Different things –”

“You have scars,” accuses Carolina. 

Tex shrugs and grins her old sharp-toothed grin. “Like I said, different things.”

“Dad had a stroke seven months ago, did you know that?” Carolina folds her arms, leaning back on one leg. Swallowing hard, Tucker looks down at the green-patterned carpet. He remembers that as if through a frosted window, a bystander to Carolina’s fear and anxiety, frustratingly useless. 

“Yeah.” Tex clears her throat, looking down. “I knew.” 

“He was in the hospital for four days.” Carolina glares at her through damp eyes, shaking ever so slightly. “Even Len stopped by, although he couldn’t be in the same room as him for more than fifteen minutes. Where the  _hell_  were you?” 

Tucker glances back at Wash, who leans against the desk, a slight frown pulling his eyebrows together. Back behind Tex, York watches and waits. 

Sighing heavily, Tex tilts her head back, the steel in her eyes chilling. “Kuala Lumpur,” she says, deliberately careless. “I figured that by the time I got back to L.A., he’d be dead anyway. And then when he survived, I thought, well, if he’s not dying, I don’t need to see him.” 

Carolina stares at her, pale except for the vivid flush high on her cheeks. Starting forward, Wash steps up behind her, one hand hovering by her elbow. There’s a sharp  _pop_  as Tex, eyebrows raised, cracks her gum. 

“I don’t know what I expected,” Carolina laughs, bitter, and glances at Wash and Tucker in disbelief. Hoping for backup, maybe. “So now what? Now that you’ve saved us you disappear back into the night?”

“No,” says Tex evenly. “I’m here to rescue our cousin.” 

\--

The train speeds through the blackness of the French night, lights in towns dotting the inky countryside like a reflection of the stars in the sky. Tucker yawns and leans back in his seat, glancing out the window. Last night, the tracker came to rest in Marseilles, and after waiting for a few hours to make sure it wasn’t a pit stop, the team packed up and left the hotel. Faced with Carolina and Tex in the same car for eight hours, Tucker made the executive decision that they take a night train down instead. 

Now in the reflection in the dark window, Tucker looks over the rest of the group. Wash and Carolina are both asleep in the seats next to Tucker, her head on his shoulder and his head on hers, and a fond smile plays on Tucker’s lips at the sight. Across from them, York sits with his feet tucked under him and his headphones plugged in, a taut, focused expression on his face as he types rapidly on his laptop. Tex, sitting next to him, has her chin propped on her hand and gazes out the window. When she sees Tucker watching her, she smiles, weary. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Tucker speaks quietly so he doesn’t disturb the sleepers. The fluorescent lights in the train car have been dimmed as well. “Sleepy?”

Tex shrugs, rueful, lines creasing around her eyes and mouth. “I can’t sleep on trains. Or airplanes. Or cars, either. Used to get motion sick when I was a kid.” 

“Oh, damn,” says Tucker, imagining Tex as a kid – blonde flyaway hair, big gray eyes, a smile missing a front tooth. “Hey, can I ask you something random?”

“Sure.”

“Is it weird, you and your twin brother being named after your mom and dad?”

Rolling her eyes, Tex says, “So weird, you have no idea. Why do you think we both go by nicknames?” 

“Yeah,” laughs Tucker quietly. “Why – how did that happen?”

“Well, from what I heard, Dr. Church was dead set on having a Leonard Church, Jr.,” says Tex dryly. “Then Mom decided that if he got a junior, so did she.” 

“My son goes by Junior,” offers Tucker, and he can’t help smiling again.

Tex’s eyes go round. “You have a son?” she gushes, leaning towards him. “I had no idea! How old is he?”

Grinning, Tucker says, “Ten. Here, let me show you him –” and digs phone out of his pocket to show Tex pictures of Junior. She awws over them, with a tender expression that Tucker’s never seen on her face before. 

“He looks like a great kid,” she says. “You must be really proud.” 

The lump that springs to Tucker’s throat catches him off-guard, and he has to clear his throat before he can talk. “Yeah.” 

Leaning forward with her hands on her knees, Tex hands Tucker his phone back. Her eyes flash up to his, searching. “Do you mind if I ask about his mother?” she says quietly.

Tucker sighs, leaning back in his seat. He would, normally. But somehow tonight, in the little pod of their lit-up car bulleting through the night, with the bright warmth of Tex’s gaze on him, he’s okay. “No, it’s okay,” he says. “She was… We met a couple of years after I graduated college, and we hit it off like that.” Tucker snaps his fingers. “Funny, smart, smoking hot – you know. The whole package. And for a while I thought it was really going somewhere, for a while. We dated for years. But it never really… I dunno. Always felt like there was a final piece missing.” Tex watches him with quiet understanding. “Anyway. We were drifting, and she knew that, so she… took matters into her own hands.” 

Tucker’s voice curls with disgust. The memory that still hits him after all these years is digging through the bathroom trash can for the razor he accidentally threw out and coming across the pills, each little white circle still neatly encased in foil and plastic, as cold sweat breaks across his forehead. “Long story short, she lied. Said she was on birth control when she wasn't. She got pregnant, because she figured, if we had a kid together, then I’d stay.” 

A soft hiss escapes Tex’s lips, but she doesn’t say anything else, leaving Tucker to continue. “It worked, sort of. I mean, he’s still my kid, and it’s not Junior’s fault that his mom is a lying bitch. I wasn’t going to abandon him. But after that, how could I trust her? And if I couldn’t trust her, how could I love her?” 

Tex smiles a little, sad and sympathetic. “You’ve come a long way since college, Tucker.” 

Quiet laughter and tears catch Tucker between two points. “Thanks.”

“I mean it.” 

“I know.” Tucker wipes at his eyes, musters a grin. “So then Junior was born. He’s not named after me, by the way. He’s named after my dad. Henry Tucker, Jr.” 

“I like it,” says Tex warmly.

“Things really fell apart after that. She left before Junior’s first birthday. But after everything…” Tucker sighs, drawing a knee up to his chest and hooking his hands around his shin. “I don’t regret it. I really don’t. Junior changed my life. He  _is_  my life. I can’t imagine where I’d be without him.” 

He looks over at Tex, and to his alarm sees tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “You’re a good dad, Tucker,” she says quietly, hoarsely. “Junior’s very lucky.” 

Not knowing what to say, Tucker reaches over and takes one of her calloused hands. Her hand twitches in his as if her instinct is to draw away, but then Tex grips his hand back with a watery smile. “I had a good example,” he says, half-apologetic. 

“Yeah,” laughs Tex, drawing her hand away. “That helps.”

\--

Tucker wakes suddenly in the dark of the hotel room, Wash and Carolina lying warm in bed beside him, as Tex’s hoarse whisper drifts into his ears. “…had a shitty dream.” 

Careful to be silent, Tucker raises his head, looking over his shoulder to where Tex and York share the other bed in the room. Moonlight outlines York’s body, the curves of his shoulder and torso like hills in the distance. Tex is hidden behind him. “About what?” murmurs York.

Tucker holds his breath. They’re only all sharing the same room because it was the first reasonably-priced place with vacancy they found, and they’re only sleeping at all because Wash and Carolina both insisted they couldn’t take down two professional mercenaries with no rest, and the tracker wasn’t going anywhere. 

“I dreamed my dad was the captain of a space ship,” says Tex. “He’d captured you, and had you hooked up to the ship, using your brain as the ship computer. But you could still see, and hear, and feel... I had to rescue you.” 

Fabric rustles as York shifts; Tucker imagines him hugging Tex closer, her head resting on his shoulder, or maybe she curls up with her back to his chest. “Did you?” he asks.

Tex laughs softly. “I woke up.” 

His neck starting to ache from twisting around, Tucker drops his head back to his pillow and finds Carolina awake and alert, her eyes gleaming, lying back-to-back with Wash. Tucker starts to ask if she overheard but Carolina shakes her head minutely, putting one moth-light finger against Tucker’s lips. 

Right. As silently as possible, Tucker relaxes back into the bedding, shifting a little closer to Carolina. She allows it, closing her eyes, though she looks anything but relaxed. Tex and York don’t speak again, and after a while Tucker assumes they’ve fallen asleep too. 

We just have to get Delta back, Tucker tells himself. Delta and that damn hard drive, and then I can go home. 

No problem at all.


	11. Siktyakh, Two Years Ago

Falling snow accumulates on the windshield, white clumps moving back-and-forth with the wipers. Grimacing, D leans forward, wiping fog off the inside of the windshield with his jacket sleeve. The snow has been steadily falling since they left Siktyakh, and York desperately hopes it doesn’t get any worse. Not until they get to somewhere they can stay, at least, instead of the middle of Siberia. His hand slips into his pocket, finding a jagged pebble he picked up earlier.

“Can we make it?” he asks.

D shrugs and frowns, eyes narrowed behind his glasses. The yellow beams of their headlights turn the snowflakes into chips of light, dancing in the dark in front of them.

Please, prays York quietly, worrying his thumb over the edge of the rock. Please let us get through. And then he thinks, That’s the first time I’ve prayed in a while –

Several pairs of headlights flare to life in front of them down the road and D slams on the brakes, the car wheeling and skidding on the snow. “Fuck!” yells York, bracing himself against the door as the car slides off the road –

They hit a snowbank and York jolts forward, the seatbelt snapping him back and his head hitting the seat. Dizzy with adrenaline, York looks over at D. “You okay?”

Panting, D leans back in his seat and nods, eyes closed. Steam rises from under the crumpled hood of the car.

“Fuck,” says York again, twisting around to look out the windows. Cars ring them on both sides, bright high beams pinning them like a bug to paper. “Fuck fuck fuck _fuck._ ”

D twists around as well, his breathing sharp and heavy with fear. And when he glances back at York, his pupils are wide and his nostrils flared, and he trembles like a cornered wild animal.

The world outside fades away, everything inside the car becoming crystal clear and focused. York leans forward, cupping the back of D’s head with his hand and touching their foreheads together. “We’ll be okay,” he breathes. Car doors outside slam shut, booted footsteps crunching on the snow.

“ _Out of the car!_ ” shouts a man in Russian. “ _Hands in the air!_ ”

Swallowing hard, D nods, his hand finding York’s and gripping it tight. He signs into York’s palm, _I’m with you._

More lights, flashlights, shining into the car. Someone pounds on the roof. “ _Out! Now!_ ”

York takes a deep breath, looking into D’s eyes. D nods, once, his jaw set, his lips pressing together. The impulse to kiss him flashes through York’s mind, here and gone.

Pound-pound-pound. “ _Out, or we shoot!_ ”

Taking a deep breath, heart thudding, York tears himself away from D and slowly opens the door, his hands held above his head. Snow falls thick and fast, stinging on his cheeks. Behind the glare of flashlights attached to their rifles, several men glare down at him. “ _Is there a problem_?” York asks, deliberately friendly.

“ _Stand up._ ”

York complies, hands still in the air. Their poor car is half a foot into the snowbank. On the other side, D stands as well, eyes flicking warily from person to person.

From the ring of armed thugs surrounding them, one man steps forward, wrapped in a dark coat and hat. Medium height, with a long nose, a wide mouth ringed by five o’ clock shadow, and narrow blue eyes. “ _Which of you is Foxtrot?_ ” he says.

York and D exchange a glance. “ _I am_ ,” answers York, his breath ghosting out in front of him. His gun hangs against his hip, heavy; his left boot, with a secret compartment in the clunky sole that holds the hard drive, suddenly feels oversized and tight. “ _I’m guessing you’re Olyenushkov.”_

The dark man sniffs and nods to one of the armed guards, which is enough of an answer for York. “ _Turn around,_ ” orders the guard, advancing with gun still drawn. “ _Hands on the car._ ”

York counts four, six, eight guns pointed at him and D. He turns around.

Marching forward, the guard holsters his gun and pushes York against the car, gloved hands patting down along his torso. York swallows hard, bracing his palms against the car frame, and tries to breathe easily. On the other side of the car, D watches York with piercing eyes, unflinching as another guard feels him up.

The guard searching York brings his hands down to his waist, pushing up the hem of his bulky jacket (missing York’s passport and other documents sewn into the lining). He finds the gun first, pulling it out and handing it to another guard. Going through York’s other pocket, he pulls out the pebble, sniffs, and tosses it away into the snow. “ _Hey,_ ” says York. “ _That’s my lucky rock._ ”

The guard shoves York forward, grabbing his hands out from under him, and his face hits the bitter cold metal of the car. Grunting, York flinches away before he freezes to it, but the guard just drives him back into the car, wrenching his arms behind him. The signature clink of metal handcuffs sounds behind him.

Stall, thinks York, heart pounding painfully, each breath as loud as a wave in his ears. Stall, stall, stall. “ _Wait,_ ” he says. “ _Olyenushkov._ ”

The metal touches his wrists, cold as ice. “ _What_?” Olyenushkov sounds bored.

“ _Want to make a lot of money?_ ”

D sighs and drops his head. “ _You will have to do better than that,_ ” scoffs Olyenushkov. “ _Let’s go._ ”

York and D are loaded into the back of the armored truck, each sandwiched between a pair of guards, facing each other from their hard metal benches. Leg jittering restlessly, York leans back against the wall of the truck. Across from him, a poker-faced D takes in every detail of their situation, eyes flicking from point to point. “There goes all our stuff,” says York, and D raises his eyebrows. “All our luggage, from the car, they’re probably seizing it –”

The guard on York’s right thumps him in the arm with the butt of his gun, and York winces. “ _No talking._ ”

With a hoarse rumble, the armored truck’s engine starts. York knows he should be coming up with a plan to get them out of there, but for a moment, all he can think is how cold the concrete cells in Lubyanka are.

\--

By the map, they’ve got about two and a half hours before the caravan gets to a road it could potentially turn off on, or any kind of civilization-slash-stopping point. But who knows what’s out here that isn’t on the map. York gives it about half an hour before he starts fidgeting. “ _Hey, uh,_ ” he says to the guard on his left. “ _When’s our next pit stop?_ ”

The guard, muffled behind helmet and black balaclava, his head bobbing slightly as the armored van rumbles over the snowy road, doesn’t respond.

“ _No, seriously_ ,” says York. “ _I didn’t use the bathroom before you arrested us._ ”

York’s other guard rolls his eyes; he looks older, the skin under his blue eyes weathered.

Sighing, York settles in. After about fifteen minutes, he whines and squirms. “ _I really, really have to go –_ ”

“ _Piss yourself, I don’t care,_ ” says the guard on his right.

Dammit. Not that York doesn’t have another trick up his sleeve – literally – but it would have helped to get out of this van first, at least. York glances from under his eyelids at the guards, tilting his head so he can see the guard on his bad side as well. Each of them has a handgun at their belt (right side), their rifles laid on the floor. No other obvious weapons. Armored with helmets and bulletproof vests. “ _You know, I never got my one phone call,_ ” says York, rattling off the words. Just a nervous, chatty, too-friendly American. “ _Or do you guys not do that here?_ ” He barely pauses for a response before continuing, “ _I just want to get in touch with my lawyer. Bobby Burns, really smart guy, I just want to talk to him…”_

No reply from the guards, but it doesn’t matter. The message was for D. York doesn’t need to check to know he got it, but the tiny, knowing curve of D’s mouth is reassuring all the same. Trying to move as subtly as possible, York twists his fingers around, fumbling at his left jacket sleeve for the bobby pin hidden under the cuff.

Picking handcuff locks is a horrible, fiddly task at the best of times, let alone when under the watchful gaze of four Russian special ops. Closing his eyes, York lets his head loll, pretending to be asleep, as he slowly and painstakingly works the metal pin in the lock. Better to do everything slow and careful than rush it. They only have one shot at this, and if the guards discover what he and D are doing, it’s over.

D’s probably already got his cuffs unlocked by now, thinks York, sweat collecting under his collar and armpits despite the cold of the car. He’s always been faster at this than me. York’s fingers cramp, his wrists aching with the tight angle. Nearly there, nearly there – _ah._

With a tiny click he desperately hopes goes unnoticed under the rumbling of tires and engine, the lock releases. York hangs onto the cuffs so they don’t fall and make noise and catch’s D eye. D nods once, the movement barely perceptible.

Taking a deep breath, York nods and mouths, _On three. One –_

Frowning, one of D’s guards looks between the two of them.

_Two –_

“ _Oi,_ ” says the guard, “ _stop immediately –”_

_Three._

York drives his elbow into the trachea of the guard on his right, grabbing the handgun from the guard on the left. Doesn’t bother to raise it beyond shoving it under the bulletproof vest and firing _one-two-three,_ the guard groans and slumps over, but a rough hand seizes the back of York’s neck –

Shots ring out, double guns firing twice, and the forehead of the guard York shot explodes in a burst of gore, spattering York. The hand on the back of his neck falls away, and the other guard collapses to the floor with a heavy thud.

Wiping blood out of his eyes, York looks over at D. He sits in between his two guards, each of them slumped over with a red hole between their eyes, and holds up a pistol in each hand with a slight smirk on his face. “How did you do that?” pants York.

Shrugging, D puts the guns down so he can tap the side of his head and sign, _It’s just calculations._

“Jesus Christ.”

The armored car shudders to a halt. “ _Hey!_ ” yells someone from the cab, pounding on the divider between the back of the truck. “ _Kuznetsov! What’s going on?_ ”

“ _Uh, had a slight weapons malfunction,_ ” York calls back, deepening and roughening his voice. “ _But, uh, everything's perfectly all right now. We're fine. We're all fine here, now._ ”

In the deafening silence, York winces. He fucked _that_ up. D kneels on the floor, hurriedly searching the dead guards, stripping weapons off them. Wiping blood off his face, York grabs one of the rifles, slinging it around his back. Rooting around in one of the body’s vests, D huffs quietly in satisfaction, pulling out a grenade.  

“Nice.” York checks the ammo in his handgun, sticks it in his belt. Searching the other corpses turns up two more grenades. “Throw it out the back, run around to the cab, jack the car?” All their stuff, their clothes and gear, is a loss, but they’ve got what’s most important. And D had the foresight to wipe any and all identifying information off their tech before packing up.

D taps the floor of the truck and signs, _We’ll have better cover if we crawl underneath._

From what York remembers the vehicle was far enough off the ground, but there’s a lot of snow. “Is there space? What if they start driving?”

Shrugging, D signs, _I calculated enough space, we’ll just have to push through snow._ He cocks his gun.

“All right.” Heart pounding, York takes a deep breath and puts his ear to the door. Shouting outside, and heavy footsteps. “Ready?”

Edging forward, D pulls the pin from the grenade and lines up with the crack in the doors, eyebrows drawn down in fierce concentration. He nods to York.

Shoulder against the cold metal, York reaches up for the handle and opens the door just enough for D to hurl the grenade through before slamming the door back shut. He holds his breath for one count – two – three –

Explosion rocks the truck, York bracing himself against the door as the metal shudders. The shaking barely dies before he throws the door open and flings himself out, hitting the snow with a roll. Steam and groans fill the air and York catches a brief glimpse of dark bodies and blood on the flung snow before diving under the truck. Sizzling pain strikes his left shoulder and he gasps, crawling forward. D presses up beside him, panting.

“I’m hit,” York grits out, dragging himself through the snow. The only light, bright yellow headlights, illuminates the edges of D’s profile like cast metal. “Shoulder.”

D flashes him a worried look before rolling over and shooting down past his feet. The guard crouched at the back of the truck crumples. _Go,_ he signals, not with ASL but military hand signals.

Grimacing, his shoulder on fire, York army-crawls forward. His head bumps against the underside of the truck, and snow fills his eyes and nose. With a grunt, he pulls himself out from under the front bumper, rolling onto his back with rifle at the ready. When he sits up, flattening himself against the truck, blood stains the snow under him black.

Car doors slam and armed men jump out of the truck cab, running towards the back. D drags himself up beside York, as York leans around to take a shot at one of the running guards –

D’s hand closes over York’s, adjusting his aim. For a moment, time slows, York vividly conscious of the grip of D’s fingers, his chest pressed against York’s shoulder, the warmth of his breath on the back of York’s neck –

York fires. The bullet hits the guard in the back of the neck and he drops like a stone.

“Let’s go,” breathes York, injured shoulder pulsing painfully. D jumps to his feet, running around to the driver’s side door. Twisting around, York runs to the passenger side and comes face-to-face with Olyenushkov, gun pointed at York, face twisted in anger –

Without stopping, York fires. Olyenushkov staggers and falls, blood on his face. Headshot. Yanking the door open, York throws himself in as D revs the engine. “What about the other cars?” he pants, ejecting spents hells from his rifle.

 _Grenade took out one,_ D signs, and the car lurches forward. Spinning the steering wheel, D swings them around, York bracing himself against the door. Dark shapes of dead guards lie in the broken snow, and one of the jeeps lies on its side, smoking. Two jeeps still functioning, about half a dozen guards still armed and active.

Bullets hit the windshield, cracking but not penetrating it. _Drive,_ orders D, and grabs York’s hands to place them on the steering wheel.

“Ah, fuck,” says York, but holds the wheel steady as D accelerates and opens the window, cold air washing into the cab. D points his gun out and _bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang,_ holy shit, that’s all remaining guards down. “You’re a monster,” says York in awe.

But the jeeps still have drivers and they rev their engines, the wheels churning up clouds of snow. “You drive,” says York, leaning back, and D grabs the wheel. “Here,” and he hands him a grenade. “You get one, I’ll get the other?”

D nods and smiles at him, long fingers wrapping around the bulb of the grenade. The armored car powers forward, snow dancing in the headlights; as York rolls down his window, he pulls the pin out of his grenade. He’s only got one throw to make this right, and his breath sticks in his throat –

Stomping on the accelerator, D drives between the two jeeps, and as he throws his grenade out the window at one York tosses his grenade at the other.

The world around them goes orange and yellow, heat and sound assailing them. Careening through, the armored car spins around and stops as D stamps on the brakes, the explosions reflected in his glasses. A smile spreads across his face, amber light dancing on his skin, and York’s chest seizes up with tight breathlessness like going over the edge of a cliff. He’s falling, falling, falling, spinning crazily, and the only thing that anchors him is the high, proud planes of D’s face, blue shadows and orange light and the enthralled gleam in his eyes as their enemies burn. Clearing his throat, York manages, “We should go.” Blood trickles from the bullet wound in his shoulder; they need to patch that up, but get out of here first.

 _We should,_ signs D. Revving the engine again, he turns them back around, the pale road stretching before them, and they drive off into the night.


	12. Marseilles, Present Day

Tex’s tracker shows the mercenaries and Delta – or at least, their car – outside of a block of apartments on the edge of the city. Some quick internet sleuthing reveals the block is empty of residents, stripped down and for sale. “You know this is bait,” says Tex, sitting crosslegged on one of the hotel beds as she reassembles her rifle. “They’re waiting for you to walk in so they can grab you. We need a plan.” 

York protests, “We had a –” 

“Sending my little sister in as recon is not a plan, York.” Tex frowns at him, before tossing a “No offense,” at Carolina.  

“None taken,” mutters Carolina. She leans against the wall on the other side of the room, about as far away from Tex as she can get without making it obvious. Tucker sees the space between them and it aches like a muscle stretched tight; he wants to grab them by the hand and bring them together, but doesn’t see how that ends without another confrontation. Instead he busies himself with repacking his duffel bag on the bed between them. Wash is in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, while York nurses a cup of black coffee he snagged from breakfast downstairs.  

“Okay,” says York. “Then what do you say we do?”  

Tex snorts. “If I come up with a plan, are you gonna listen?” 

Tucker looks up from folding clothes just in time to catch the trust and devotion on York’s face that are so unguarded Tucker feels as though he’s walked in on something intimate. “I would follow you anywhere,” says York quietly. “I thought you knew that.”  

He never looked at me like that, thinks Tucker with a strange pang of nostalgia. I don’t know if I wanted him to. It reminds Tucker of Junior when he was little, somehow. A cautious smile spreads across Tex’s face, but the moment breaks when Carolina clears her throat pointedly. “We can’t go in the building,” she says. “They’ll ambush us.”  

“Or we ambush them first.” Tex snaps the barrel of her gun into place. “Get Gates and Ortez out in the open and I can take them out –” 

Wash pops out of the bathroom to point his toothbrush at Tex and say, “No. No shooting.”  

Cocking her head, she says, “They’re dangerous –” 

“I know. Wanted for twelve counts of homicide and kidnapping in the United States, which is why I’m going to be placing them in federal custody.”  

Tex rolls her eyes and sighs. “Good luck with that –” 

“If I can get them in alive, I will.” Wash glares at her, intimidating despite flecks of toothpaste foam on his lower lip. He needs a shave, too, black stubble sprinkling his upper lip and chin. Tucker’s never wanted to plant a kiss on him more in his life. “We shoot as a last resort.”  

He locks eyes with Tex, obsidian versus steel. “How do you think we should do this, then?” she bites off. 

Sighing, Wash ducks into the bathroom to rinse and spit, and comes back drying his face on a washcloth. “I don’t think it’s a bad idea to have you on a high vantage point, keeping an eye on the situation. Yes, with a gun.”  

“Can we lure them out?” Carolina asks him. “Or flush them out, maybe…”  

Glee lights Tex’s eyes. “We could set the building on fire, that would send them running –” 

“And leave Delta behind?” Carolina snaps. 

“They need him to collect their bounty, they wouldn’t,” York murmurs from over the rim of his mug.  

“But that’s assuming they can get out at all. It’s way too risky.” Wash leans against the wall next to Carolina, arms folded thoughtfully. Her hips bump gently into his. “I wonder if we could simulate an explosion, with smoke grenades and concussive charges –” 

“Here’s a wild idea,” says Tucker. “What if we just try to talk to them?” 

York sighs. “They’ll just shoot you on sight.”  

“Not if you’re with me.” Tucker probably shouldn’t be this confident, he’s neither a criminal nor an expert at catching them, but deep down, he just knows. He’s right. “They want to lure you in, right? If they shoot me you’ll just bolt.”  

Shrugging, Tex says, “He’s got a point.”  

York chews his lip, considering, good eye fixed on Tucker. “And then what?” he says quietly. “What do we talk to them about?” 

The idea comes to Tucker so naturally that he’s a little alarmed. “A deal. A trade.”  

Carolina and Tex both give Tucker puzzled looks, but Wash tilts his head back with half-closed eyes and a thoughtful, “Ah.”  

“Trade what?” says York slowly, eyes narrowed. 

Tucker swallows hard. “You.”  

“Ohhh, no,” laughs York, hard-edged. “No. I’m not –” 

“Not for real,” says Tucker hastily. “Just enough to keep them talking, until…” He looks over at Wash for backup.  

“Until I can come in and arrest them, with Carolina as backup.” Wash nods, smiling slightly. “I like it.”  

“I don’t,” counters Tex. Sitting cross-legged with her gun laid across her lap, she rests her elbows on her knees and frowns from Wash to Tucker. “The whole thing hinges on them deciding to talk to us rather than shoot, which is a stupid decision on their part.”  

Carolina sighs and rubs her face. “As much as I hate to say it,” she says from behind her hand, “I agree with Allie. There’s too many unknowns.”  

Everyone looks to York, who groans and drains his mug. “You want  _me_  to make a decision?” he mumbles. 

“It’s your skin on the line,” says Tex. “It’s your boy they’ve got.”  

“He’s not – he’s not my – he’s also your cousin,” retorts York, glaring at her. Unmoved, she tilts her head and raises her eyebrows. “ _Fine_.” York scrubs his hands through his hair until it’s a tangled mess and links his fingers together behind his neck, staring down at the gray-patterned carpet.  

Tucker’s run out of socks to fold. He zips up the duffel bag, and the noise cuts through the quiet room; everybody looks at him. “Sorry,” says Tucker.  

“Okay,” sighs York. “Okay. Let’s... let’s try it Tucker’s way, first.” He looks apologetically at Tex. “But if that doesn’t pan out, you call plan B.” 

A little scrap of satisfaction warms Tucker’s heart; York picked  _his_  plan, after everything. Accepting defeat with a rueful smile, Tex says, “Then I better come up with a damn good plan B.” 

\-- 

“Hey,” says Wash, catching Tucker as the team leaves the hotel room, armed and ready to go. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”  

“Wh – yeah, sure.” Tucker hangs back, Tex and York filing past him into the hallway. Carolina is the last to leave, with a curious glance back at Wash; he nods and winks, and a knowing smile flits across her face before she exits too. Mystified by this unspoken communication, Tucker turns back to Wash, saying, “Dude, what’s up –” 

Taking Tucker’s face in his hands, Wash kisses him soundly on the lips. 

Wash’s mouth is warm, his hands gentle, and the kiss stops Tucker’s breath like being submerged in water. The whole world spins and reorients itself with Wash at the center, and Tucker kicks his brain into gear to lean into it just as Wash breaks away, eyes crinkled up in satisfaction. “Wow,” says Tucker. “Okay. Not that I’m complaining, but –” 

“I’ve wanted that for a long time,” says Wash, his hands still on Tucker’s face. “A really long time, actually.”  

Tucker manages, “What about Carolina?” 

“Oh, she does too. She just decided she’d wait until all of this is over before making any moves.” Wash’s expression grows more serious, his hands sliding down to Tucker’s jaw, Tucker’s neck. “But I didn’t want to take anything for granted. Including all of us making it out of this alive.”  

And that’s all the fucking justification Tucker needs to grab Wash and pull him into a kiss so fierce Wash staggers, his arms wrapping around Wash’s shoulders, Wash bending slightly so he can fit his mouth against Tucker’s. Tension inside Tucker, tension that he’s been carrying for days, weeks, months, longer than he can remember, bursts like a bubble and leaves only warmth sweeping through him from head to toe.  

Wash pulls back again, Tucker chasing him, with a brief inarticulate sound. “We should go,” he says, regretful. Right. Because duty, and all that shit. “They’re waiting for us.”  

“Yeah.” Tucker swallows hard, tugging his jacket back down. “Yeah, we should – yeah.” He can’t help himself, he runs a thumb over the hard line of Wash’s jaw, and Wash catches his hand and plants a kiss to his palm in a gesture so sincere it makes Tucker’s stomach jump. “Let’s go.”  

\-- 

The apartment building is a gray, uninteresting block, the windows boarded, the paint stained, and its corners crumbling. Dry weeds poke up through the cracking pavement as York and Tucker approach, Tucker’s hands shoved in his jacket pockets to protect them from the cold. The air is thick and damp with ocean fog, gray even light filtering down through the cloud cover. “How do we know they’re here and not just their car?” says Tucker. 

York sighs heavily. “We don’t.”  

“Great.” The whole section of town they’re in looks abandoned, only the occasional car passing by. A seagull cries overhead, lonely and echoing. “Well, let’s hope they want to talk to us as much as we want to talk to them.” 

“Take it easy,” breathes Tex, via the communicator in his ear. “You gotta get them at least a couple feet away from the doorway for me to have a clear shot.”  

Tucker resists glancing up at the building across the street where Tex watches from a ninth-floor window. “I know.”  

“Don’t fuck this up, boys,” she says, lighthearted.  

Over the communicator, Wash cuts through, “No shooting unless you have to –” 

Tex pops her gum, and Tucker can imagine her rolled eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”  

“Be careful,” says Carolina over the comms, steady and even. She waits in the car with Wash, a block away. “Especially you, Tucker.”  

If he wasn’t listening, he wouldn’t catch the tiny catch in her voice at the end. With a hitch of breath, Tucker says, “Yes, ma’am.”  _I’m coming back_ , he promises. To her, to Wash, to Junior, to himself.  _I’m coming out of this alive._  

He and York cross the street and approach the building; the entrance, double plexiglass doors, is slightly recessed into the building, and a heavy chain circles through the handles, locking the doors. There are no signs of life in the darkened lobby. “Now what?” says Tucker. “Wave the white flag? Shout for them to parlay?”  

“I’m not seeing anything,” says Tex.  

“Hey!” yells York, his voice reverberating off the concrete. “Ortez! Gates! It’s me!” He spreads his arms out wide, glaring defiant up at the shuttered windows. “Come and fucking get me!”  

Heart pounding, Tucker watches the doors. But nothing – nothing – and then movement catches his eye and he turns to see a man slide around the corner of the building, his hands in his pockets. “Wow, not even a ‘Hi, how are you?’ Jesus, you guys are jumped up,” he says.  

The man is slender, only a little taller than Tucker, dressed in nondescript black. His red-brown hair, short on the sides, sweeps back messily on top, and his long, narrow face culminates in an angular jaw with a scruffy, graying goatee. Tucker catches a glimpse of fading tattoos at the base of his neck and his exposed wrists, notes the long knife at his belt. Making a calculated guess, Tucker calls out, “Gates?” 

“Yup!” Gates grins wolfishly and saunters towards them. “What can I do for you fine gentlemen –” 

York vibrates at Tucker’s side with restrained anger. “Where’s Delta?” he snarls. “Where is he?” 

Gates  _tsks_  at York, shaking his head, and wow, Tucker hates him already. “Now, now, patience,” he chides. “Why would I just  _tell_  you where he is?” and he laughs.  

“Easy, York,” breathes Tex. “Keep it together.” York seizes Tucker’s wrist, gripping tight enough to hurt; tendons in his neck and jaw work.  

Right. Taking a deep breath, Tucker disengages himself from York and takes a cautious step forward, hands held up. “Hey, dude, no worries,” he says. “We’re just here to make a deal.”  

Gates’ eyes narrow suspiciously. “What kind of deal?” 

They need Ortez, too. “Get your partner out here and we’ll talk.” 

Making a show of considering, Gates looks up at the soft silver sky. “Mm... nah.” He grins and winks at Tucker. “Can’t have all my cards out in the open, can I?”  

“I dunno, I think he’d really want to hear what we have to say,” says Tucker. His heart pounds drum-loud in his chest. 

Tilting his head speculatively, Gates eyes Tucker. “Sell it to me.”  

“Shit,” says Tex sharply. “Abort abort abort, you need to get the hell out of there –” 

 _What? Why?_  Tucker wants to demand, but he can’t, not with Gates quizzically watching them. And then his question is answered anyway as black SUVs pull up and out jump several large men in dark clothes, carrying guns – 

“Shit!” yelps Tucker, grabbing York’s arm. “Run!”  

He bolts around the side of the building that faces Tex, opposite Gates, and shots fire and someone cries out in pain and Tex hisses, “Missed, dammit –” 

“I said no shooting!” Wash yells, as Tucker sprints around behind the building and flattens himself in its shelter, York dashing up beside him, gun in hand. “Tucker, what’s going on –” 

“Russians showed up,” pants Tucker. “How the hell do they keep following us –” 

“Plan B,” barks Tex. “York, Tucker, get inside that building, grab Delta, and go. Wash and ‘Lina, pull the car around and get ready to drive the moment they’re out _._ I’m heading down –” 

York answers, “Got it,” and sprints around the corner to the narrow alley behind the building, Tucker hot on his heels and with Russian shouting following them. The gray metal back door is shut but York kicks it open and he and Tucker tumble in, throwing themselves into the door to slam it shut. “In,” pants York. “Tex, we gotta barricade this door before the Ruskies get in –” 

“Do it,” she orders, short of breath. “I’m on my way.”  

Tucker looks around frantically for furniture but the room they’re in is empty, stripped down to drywall and peeling linoleum floor. His gun hangs heavy at his back, wedged against his skin. “Dude, I don’t think we can.” The most they could do is tear down one of the planks from the windows and wedge that under the door handle, but that would only buy them as much time as it took to set up –  

“Motherfucker,” growls York. “Okay, let’s go.”  

He and Tucker sprint to the nearest stairwell, dashing up to the first floor and into the hallway. Closed doors line the walls. “How are we supposed to find Delta?” Tucker pants, hands on his knees. 

“ _D!_ ” York screams, Tucker frantically trying to shush him. “I’m here!”  

“There’s still another guy here!” Tucker hisses. “The other merc!” 

York ignores him, bolting upstairs. Swearing under his breath, Tucker follows, how the hell does he even know where he’s going anyway – 

Gunfire bursts in Tucker’s ear and he trips and nearly falls, grabbing the staircase railing to stay on his feet. “Tex!” he yells. 

“I’m fine!” she shouts back. “Where are you?” 

“Building, going upstairs –” 

“We’re here but I don’t want to park, there’s too many hostiles,” says Wash, clipped. “Is that – hang on, someone just rappelled out of a building window –” 

“What floor?” demands York at the same time as Tex asks, “Who?” 

“Big guy in black, fits Ortez’s description,” says Wash grimly. “He’s going to Gates –” 

York sprints up to the fourth floor, taking steps two at a time, Tucker just managing to keep up. Wash continues, “Gates and Ortez are getting into a vehicle, I’m going after them –” 

“No!” orders Tex. “We need you here –” 

Carolina snaps, “I know you don’t understand responsibility, but –” 

Reaching the fourth floor, York calls out for D again, and this time there’s an answering thump from one of the apartments further down the hallway. “I am  _trying_ ,” bites off Tex, icy, “to keep us all alive –” 

The color drains from York’s face and he flat-out sprints to a door, yanking on the handle. “Hang on, hang on,” gasps Tucker, catching up. “Yell for him again –” 

“And I’m trying to do my job!” roars Wash.  

“D!” yells York. “Delta!”  

Another thump sounds like it’s coming from two apartments down. “Who’s going to arrest them, just the two of you?” snaps Tex. “Get back here,  _now._ ” 

York and Tucker rush to the apartment door. “On three,” says Tucker, bracing his shoulder against the door, and York nods and mirrors him. “One – two – three –” They throw themselves against the door; it shudders but holds, pain blooming up Tucker’s shoulder briefly. 

Wash growls in frustration and Tucker catches the squeal of brakes over the communicator. “You’re helping me hunt them down, you owe me.”  

“One – two –  _three_ –” 

“Don’t worry, they’ll be back,” says Tex, grim as death.  

The door creaks, barely hanging on. One more blow ought to do it. Breathing hard, Tucker counts them down again and he and York drive their shoulders into the door, blasting it open, and stumble into the dimly-lit room. 

It’s empty, chips of drywall littering the floor, sunlight filtering in through cracks in the window boarding. But past the kitchen on the left are two closed doors, and the thump sounds again, along with strained groaning. “Okay,” pants Tex. “I’m in the building, where are you?” 

“Fourth floor, apartment 15C,” relays Tucker, hurrying after York as he runs to the door. “Where’re the Russians –” 

York throws the door open and goes straight for the man bound to a chair in the middle of the room. “Circling,” growls Tex. “I’ve been picking them off if they get too close –” 

“You might need to keep doing that if you want us to get you,” says Wash.  

Falling to his knees, York cups the man’s face in his hands and touches their foreheads together. Even in the poor light, Tucker sees dark blood streaking the man’s face. “Hey,” whispers York, shaky. “I did it, I got you, I’m here –” 

“We’re not clear yet,” mutters Tucker, hurrying over. Duct tape holds Delta’s ankles down and binds his wrists behind the chair – but his mouth is clear, oddly enough. His eyes flash up to Tucker, startlingly green. “Give me your knife and I’ll get him free.”  

York digs his pocket knife out without hesitation and hands it to Tucker, who kneels and starts sawing through the duct tape around Delta’s left ankle. “Are you okay?” York asks, pushing Delta’s tangled dark hair out of his eyes. Bruises discolor Delta’s cheek and jaw, his left eye is swollen shut, and blood stains his jeans over his thigh, inches from Tucker’s nose. But Delta nods.  

Reaching underneath the chair, Tucker cuts through the second duct tape binding. The smell of blood and a man who’s been sitting in his clothes for a week curls in his nostrils. “Almost to you,” huffs Tex. “You got him?”  

With Delta’s legs free, Tucker moves around to undo the tape on his wrists. “Yeah,” breathes York, his gaze locked with Delta’s like they can speak mind-to-mind. “I got him.”  

The second the tape around his wrists comes free, Delta yanks his hands loose and starts rapidly forming sign language letters, frowning at York. Huh, thinks Tucker. Wasn’t expecting that. Whatever he says makes York swallow hard, looking worried. “Fuck,” he sighs. “Well, Tex thinks they’ll come back soon, so it’s not over yet.”  

“What do I think?” says Tex, from behind Tucker. Standing, Tucker turns to see her in the doorway, rifle slung over one shoulder, blood spattering her cheek, chewing on gum.  

“That Gates and Ortez will try and find us again.” York runs careful hands over Delta’s arms and sides, notices the blood on his leg with a grimace. “Can you walk?” 

Delta signs a response; either he’s still frowning or his eyebrows are just Like That. Dropping his head, York swears, touching Delta’s wounded leg gingerly. “Let’s try it,” he says, and helps Delta to his feet. Staggering, Delta stays upright only with York’s arm under his shoulders, keeping his weight off his injured leg.  

“Hey, cuz,” says Tex, and Delta nods with a faint, strained smile. “Good to see you again.”  

Tucker hands the knife back to York, who pockets it. “Hi, I’m Tucker, I’m – you don’t know me, I was a friend of York’s from college –” 

Delta signs something quickly. “He knows,” says York. “I’ve told him about you.”  

“Guys, we really need to get a move on,” says Wash. “ _Now._ ” 

Tex ducks round to Delta’s other side, her arm around his waist. Tucker leads them out, Delta hobbling as fast as he can between the two. “We’re on our way,” Tucker promises.  

As they hurry back towards the stairs, Tucker has to ask, “York said the hard drive was locked to your guys’ voices, but Delta can’t talk? How does that work?” 

“I can speak – if I have to,” croaks Delta, in a whisper so hoarse and flat it sounds more machine than human. “But it hurts.”  

“Laryngitis, when he was a kid,” supplies Tex. “How old were you, eight?” Delta holds up seven fingers. “Okay, seven.”  

“Damn,” says Tucker. That sucks. They reach the stairs, and as much as the adrenaline in Tucker’s veins screams for him to go, go, go, Tex, Delta, and York can only descend one stair at a time. “Wash, Carolina, where are you guys, where are the Russians –” 

Wash says, “We’re out back by the alley, but I haven’t seen them –” 

They turn the corner and on the landing below stand four men, dressed in black, and with guns pointed up at Tucker and the others. The bottom drops out of Tucker’s stomach. “So, Foxtrot,” says the man in front, in a thick Russian accent. “We meet at last.”  

York goes the color of putty. “Oh, fuck,” he whispers. “You guys weren’t lying.”  

Two of the men are big and burly, with gruff jaws and thick necks. Between them, they support a smaller, darker man, whose temple is disfigured by a swollen pink scar. His mouth hangs slack, and his blue eyes are dull and unfocused. The fourth man, the one who was talking, is bald but with a thick sandy beard, and the pure malice he directs at York makes Tucker’s skin crawl.  

Rifle aimed at the bald man, eyes narrowed, Tex says, “Lying about what?”  

“About Olyenushkov being alive,” mutters York, still gazing at the scarred man in horror. Delta leans against him, glaring up from under his eyebrows at the Russians. “Jesus Christ, I am so sorry –” 

“I was  _there_ ,” hisses the bald man. His gun remains trained on York. “I was there when you shot him, I saw him fall –” 

Has to have been when they were in Russia, Tucker thinks. Jesus. 

“– and I vowed to myself, I would find you and your compatriot, and make you pay –” 

“So you dragged a brain-dead guy across the continent just to prove a point on your revenge quest?” says Tucker. “Dude, that’s fucked up.”  

The glare that Baldy levels at him could cut through steel. “This doesn’t concern you,” he snaps, before turning his attention back on York. His grip on the gun shifts, finger moving to the trigger. “This is about this one-eyed bastard –” 

Tucker ducks and launches himself down at Baldy, catching him around the middle and sending them both tumbling to the floor. The gun flies out of his hand, clattering on the floor and spinning away. Shots fire and Tex yells and Tucker grapples with Baldy, each of them furiously grabbing at the other for the upper hand, don’t let him get the gun,  _don’t let him get the gun_  – 

A knee hits Tucker’s groin, hard, and he wheezes, curling in on himself while stars dance across his vision. Another blow hits the side of his head and he nearly passes out, vertigo and nausea wracking him.  

“No!” yells York, and shots fire, the noise so loud in Tucker’s ears his head swims. Warm liquid soaks into him – fuck, he got shot, didn’t he, this is the end – 

A hand grips his shoulder, turning him onto his back. Groaning, Tucker opens his eyes to see Tex leaning over him. “Come on,” she urges, “we gotta go –” 

Nausea surges up again and Tucker rolls over and heaves, vomiting up the remnants of this morning’s pastries. “Christ,” mutters Tex, grabbing him around the waist. “You can puke later, we gotta get the hell out,  _now –_ ” 

“ ‘M I shot,” mumbles Tucker, trying to get to his feet. His shoes slip in – oh. That’s blood. Not his blood? 

Tex yanks him upright, her arms like iron bars, and Tucker staggers into her, vision still blurring. Oh. That’s  _definitely_  not his blood. Baldy lies splayed on the floor, bullet holes riddling his torso, eyes staring unseeing up at the ceiling. Three other bodies in dark clothing are crumpled at the foot of the stairs.  

Leaning on Tex, Tucker stumbles down the stairs to the next floor. Ahead of them, York has Delta in a fireman’s carry, his gun drawn; he glances back up at Tex and Tucker with a flash of worry. “Tucker, are you okay?”  

“He got knocked in the head but he’ll be fine,” says Tex, breath short with the effort of holding Tucker upright. He struggles to get his feet under him, he can  _do_ this, and his legs manage to hold his weight.  

Wash says, terse, “We’re here and ready.”  

His head spins and he still feels like he might puke but Tucker grits his teeth and makes it down the stairs. Only one more flight left. Tucker takes a deep breath and shakes his head and between Tex and the handrail stays upright. Down, down, his head pounding, and he hurries after York and Delta and out into the sunlight - 

Tucker winces, staggering. The car waits at the end of the alley, engine running, Wash at the wheel, and Carolina sprints towards them. “Tucker –” 

“I’m fine,” he manages.  

Her worried gaze snaps onto Delta, still slung over York’s shoulders, who gives her a dry thumbs-up. “Okay,” Carolina huffs. “Let’s go –” 

They hurry towards the car, Wash half-leaning out the window as if he can will them to move faster. And because Tucker has his gaze fixed on him, he sees the alarm cross Wash’s face as he starts out of his seat, pointing behind them. “Watch your six!” he yells. 

Tucker spins around just in time to see more Russian thugs running towards them before Tex yanks him to the ground, falling flat on his stomach as bullets whiz overhead. Behind him Wash curses as glass shatters, and the car revs, leaving the alley. York and Delta, on the ground too, back into the shelter of a dumpster.  

“Dammit,” mutters Tex, crawling back behind another trash can. Tucker flattens himself against the wall beside her, Carolina crouched on his other side. “You two, go, I’ll handle them.”  

Nodding, Carolina seizes Tucker’s hand and starts urging him back. Holding his breath, Tucker scootches back along the wall, towards the street, as Tex peeks her head out. Two more bullets streak by and she ducks back with a curse before popping up to take a shot. “What about York and Delta?” Tucker whispers.  

Carolina frowns, her mouth hard. They make it around the building corner onto the street, where Wash stands by the car; the drivers’ side windows are shattered, and bullets pock the doors. “Hey,” breathes Wash, rushing over to help Tucker and Carolina to their feet. “You guys okay?”  

Leaning into him, Tucker manages, “Yeah.”  

“For now.” Carolina spins and darts back into the cover of the building, edging back towards Tex. York and Delta have crawled back out of the alley, but they can’t make it across the gap to the car without being in the line of fire. Tucker grips Wash’s shoulder, his heart in his throat, the side of his head pulsing painfully.  

“Go!” yells Tex, hidden from Tucker by the building. “I’ll cover!” 

Without hesitation York scoops Delta up and bolts across the gap, nearly crashing into Wash and Tucker. “Whoa!” says Wash, grabbing onto them, and they fall against the car. “All good?” 

York, smeared with blood and sweat and dirt, pants, “Yeah.” Wincing, Delta leans on the car to pull himself onto his good leg. In the light of day he looks terrible, dark circles under his eyes, blood crusted on his face, his hair greasy and tangled and his clothes stained. His wrists and knuckles are scraped raw. “Tex!” York yells. “We’re clear!”  

She reappears, rifle in hand, bleeding from a fresh cut on the cheek with Carolina shadowing her. “In the car!” she shouts back. “Go!”  

Delta yanks the door open, throwing himself in with York piling after. Tucker holds the door open for Tex as she runs up but a thug chases after her, big ugly face contorted in concentration as he aims his gun –  

Like a tiger springing on its prey, Carolina leaps from her hiding spot and tackles him, thighs wrapping around his chest and an arm under his chin as she uses her momentum to spin and bring him to the ground. The thug falls with a heavy thud, gun knocked out of his hand, and Carolina yanks her forearm farther under his chin. Choking, he scrabbles at her with a meaty hand, but Carolina twists so she can pin his neck between her thighs, and grabs at his arm for leverage and leaning back, arches her hips – 

A sharp  _pop_  breaks through the air and the thug shudders, going limp. Panting, Carolina disentangles herself from his body and gets to her feet, brushing red hair out of her eyes, looking back at her audience with wild eyes. Tucker’s never been both so scared and so turned on in his life. 

“Right," says Carolina, and takes a deep breath. "What?" 

Looking dazed, Wash takes a step forward and drops to one knee, taking her hands. “Carolina Emily Rose Church,” he says. “Will you marry me?” 

“You’re asking  _now_?” Carolina shrieks. 

Wash frowns and blinks, saying, “I don’t know, it just seemed like the right moment –” 

Yanking him to his feet, Carolina kisses him full on the lips, and Wash staggers and grabs her tight. They rock back, arms wrapping around each other, faces mashed together – 

“Hey!” shouts Tex. “Not that I’m not happy for you, but we need to  _go_  –” 

Carolina and Wash break back with a gasp, Wash looking as concussed as Tucker feels. “Yeah,” he says, breathing hard. “We should – yeah.”  

They all pile into the car; it only seats five so Delta has to curl up on York’s lap, but Tucker guesses they’re both pretty okay with that. With a screech of tires Wash pulls out into the street, and Tucker keeps looking out the windows for more black cars but none of them appear as they race back towards more inhabited sectors of Marseilles. “How did they find us?” he says, looking back at York and Delta.  

York sighs, his arms looped securely around Delta’s waist; Delta rests his head on York’s shoulder, eyes half-closed. “They have more men, more money, more tech,” he says. “And we haven’t exactly been quiet. But I’m hoping now that whoever that agent was is dead...”  

“Yeah,” says Tex. “What was up with all that?” 

Groaning, York tilts his head back against the seat. “There was an FSB agent, Olyenushkov, tracking us all through Siberia,” he says. “On our way out of Siktyakh, he ambushed us. We got free, I shot him in the head. I thought I killed him. I wish I had. That other guy must have been... I dunno. One of the guards or something.” He nudges Delta gently. “D? You remember him?”  

Delta shakes his head, looking drained and listless. York sighs, softly rubbing the back of Delta's neck, and says, “All the guards there were masked anyway, he could have been any of them.”  

Tucker’s head hurts more than ever, and he leans it into his hands, closing his eyes. “What about the hard drive?” Carolina asks. “Do you have it?”  

The silence in the car, broken only by the rattling of metal and the rumbling of the engine, tells Tucker all he needs to know.  

\-- 

“Ow!” yelps Gates, flinching back in his chair. “Watch it, Sammy, Jesus!” 

Sam keeps his gaze focused on the crimson wound in Gates’ bared thigh, blood smeared over his gloved fingers as he manipulates the forceps. “Hold still,” he rumbles. “You’re only making this harder.”  

Muttering under his breath, Gates clenches his fingers around the edge of the chair. There. Sam can just see the gleam of metal in between layers of muscle. Seizing it with the forceps, he draws the bullet out, Gates jerking and swearing, his knuckles going white. “Ahhh fuck fuck fuckfuck _fuck_  –” 

“It’s out.” Sam lets the bullet drop to the carpeted floor beside him. The hotel they’re holed up in is so cheap, another stain in the rug won’t matter. “Stop being such a baby.”  

“Go fuck yourself,” retorts Gates, red in the face, as Sam stands to retrieve sutures, gauze, and antiseptic. “You let them get away –” 

“They’ll be back.” Kneeling again, Sam contemplates tying Gates to the chair to keep him still. There’s more duct tape in his bag. “We have the hard drive.”  

Gates sighs heavily. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he mutters. “Price is going to eat us alive if we fuck this up.” 

He’ll reserve the duct tape for when he needs it, Sam decides. “Then we won’t fuck it up.” 


	13. Los Angeles, Several Weeks Ago

York leans back on his hands, the mattress creaking under him. At the desk in their motel room, D scrutinizes the laptop screen, pale light reflected in his glasses as he searches for flights to Tehran. Between prices, availability, and a flight path that avoids a layover or airspace in a hostile country, they’re lucky if they can get on a plane before the end of the week. And meanwhile the clock to apprehension and capture keeps ticking down.

We’ll get out, York tells himself. We’ll make it. The motel walls, pea green, remind him vaguely of a hospital, and the bedspread under his hands feels coarse and cheap. Out the window, the golden arches of a McDonald’s shine like a corporate moon, the nighttime skyline of Los Angeles beyond them.

Keys click softly as D’s fingers move back and forth, his wrists like carved ivory. In gleam of the cheap overhead lamp, his high cheekbones and the dark mane of his mohawk look out of place: fey beauty transplanted to the mortal realm. He’s too good for them, York thinks with a sudden surge of fierce tenderness. All the government thugs and hired guns trying to get their big ugly hands on him. The desire to keep D safe is so strong that it pushes up York’s throat and out his mouth as, “They can’t take you. I won’t let them.”

The typing stops. Turning in his chair, D frowns minutely at York. _Who?_

“The Russians. The Feds. Anyone who tries to take you away from me.” The words hang quivering in the air, on the brink of a precipice that neither of them have crossed. They haven’t talked about it, this _thing_ that fills the empty space between them at nights and twists around York’s tongue whenever he looks at D. York holds his breath, a knot in his stomach tying tight.

D takes his glasses off and carefully sets them on the desk. Crossing the few feet between them, D kneels on the bed, straddling York, and York’s heart skips a beat at the sudden proximity. _Am I yours to be taken from?_

Swallowing hard, York steps forward and off the precipice into freefall. “Yes.”

D’s face is inches away from his, every fine detail a work of art – the sculpted curve of his lips, the dark pen strokes of his eyebrows, the long line of his nose. Exhaling shakily, York tilts his head up at him, his thumbs gently pressing into the points of D’s hips. He aches to kiss him, to close that tiny gulf between their mouths for the first time, but the gem-like clarity of D’s eyes pins him down.

Tilting his head, D brushes his thumb over York’s cheek and up along his eye scars, gazing intently at York as if reading him. His thumb slides back down to York’s lower lip, pressing down slightly, and York’s stomach tightens with desperate want. “Please,” York whispers.

The corners of D’s lips turn up, and he signs, _Please what?_

“I need you,” is all York can manage. He doesn’t know how to say it, how to put the aching hunger in his soul into words.  

But luckily for him, D’s never needed words.

Sliding his fingers behind York’s head, D draws him in for a long, slow kiss. His lips press into York’s with deliberation, and it’s good but not enough. York leans up and in to him, neck straining, but D’s hand tightens at the base of his skull and York freezes, breath shaking. “I need...” he manages.

D raises his eyebrows.

York doesn’t know what he needs, what he wants, and he groans and drops his forehead to D’s collarbone. He wants to not be on the run. He wants to not be hunted. He wants to get more than five hours of sleep a night. But wrapping his arms around D’s waist and holding him tight feels right like two puzzle pieces slotting together. D kneads at the back of his neck, gently digging into knotted tendons, and York groans again in relief. “You,” he says. “I want you.”

The room is quiet enough that York hears the wet sound of D swallowing and his catch of breath. His fingers twitch on York’s neck.

If York tilts his head up, he can press his lips to the pale column of D’s throat. He exhales slowly, kisses D’s neck again to feel the flutter of his pulse under his skin. D lowers his head to York’s, face in his hair, and his hips roll minutely into York’s. “Please,” whispers York again, desire coiling in his stomach, and touches his lips to D’s skin a third time.

With a sharp gasp D yanks York’s head up and kisses him again, but this time their lips work together furiously and York opens his mouth and D’s tongue slides against his. Heat pooling in his core, York spirals deeper into the kiss, his hands slipping under D’s t-shirt to press into his bare skin. D’s hand tightens in York’s hair and he tugs, sending sparks flying down York’s spine. A second pull on York’s hair drags a moan out of him, and when D taps him on the neck, twice, York opens his eyes. _What do you need?_ D signs.

Fire burns inside York, licking up the inside of his throat. “You –”

D pulls his hair again and York shudders, his head falling back into D’s hand. _You have me._

He does but it’s not enough, D pressed up in his lap with his long clever fingers on York’s neck and his bright eyes on his face. York rakes his hands up D’s ribs, feels them move with his breath. Sinking into another kiss, D grinds his hips into York’s, and York arches back up into him. “Please,” he gasps.

D grabs the hem of his own t-shirt and pulls it up over his head and off, baring his torso. Everything about D is linear – his bones under his skin, the contours of his abdomen and limbs, the computer circuit tattoo on his inner bicep – and he takes York’s breath away. Leaning in, York draws his thumbs over the sharp angles of D’s pelvis and skims his lips over D’s collarbone. D tugs at York’s shirt and York bows his head so D can pull it off; even when the fabric leaves he stays with his forehead pressed to D’s chest, his eyes closed.

Cool fingers trace up his spine, leaving a shiver in their wake. The touch continues up, slow and deliberate, to York’s neck, around the shell of his ear, and along his cheek. Stomach clenching, York exhales shakily as D’s two fingers nudge against the corner of York’s mouth. York turns his head obediently and D slides his fingers into York’s mouth, pressing gently on his tongue.

A groan rises out of York, and he sucks on D’s fingers. His insides draw wire-tight, desire pulsing in his groin, and the pressure of D’s crotch on his and the weight of his fingers in York’s mouth brings only a little relief. He wants to beg for more, but he can’t, and York whines faintly as he drags his mouth over D’s fingers.

D taps York’s neck again and York looks up at him, pleading. Dark heat burns in D’s eyes, making a nervous tremor hit York’s stomach. When D draws his fingers out of York’s mouth, York chases after them with a gasp. _Stay,_ signs D, the first two fingers on his left hand shining with York’s saliva. Swallowing down another whine, York holds himself still, even when D steps back off his lap, his legs long in their dark jeans. _What do you need?_

“You,” says York, throat dry. “In me.”

D gazes at him hungrily, one hand toying with his belt buckle. Fingers clenching on the cheap bedspread, York holds his breath. _Take off your clothes,_ D orders.

Having a task to do settles York, focuses the swirling heat in his belly. Standing, he unbuckles his belt, slowly unzipping his jeans. Not making a show out of it, but taking his time. They’ve seen each other undressed before, more than once, but for the first time York feels naked as he peels off his pants and underwear and stands in front of D. He can feel D’s gaze on him, as tangible as his hands, and York suddenly, desperately, yearns for approval.

Smiling slightly, a faint flush rising on his cheeks, D pointedly looks over York from head to his stiffening cock. _Good,_ he signs.

Giddy warmth sweeps over York and his breath catches, knees going weak for a moment. And maybe D sees that, because his expression sharpens and he strides forward, meeting York in a grasping, breathless kiss. York seizes D’s face in his hands, kissing him open-mouth; D rakes his nails down York’s back, seizing his bare ass and kneading. “Tell me again,” breathes York, grinding into D despite the chafe of D’s jeans. “D –”

D kisses him soundly, spreading York’s ass cheeks; his long fingers dip in between, brushing York’s rim, and York shivers and groans. Breaking away so their faces are only inches apart, warm breath trembling in between, D signs, _On your knees._

Kneeling, the nubby carpet pressing into his knees, York gazes up at D. The bright bulb of the ceiling lamp shines behind his head like a halo. D caresses York’s head, pulls his hair again until York bares his neck, then tugs him back in until his nose is pressed to D’s crotch. Closing his eyes, York breathes in and mouths at the bulge behind D’s jeans. This is easy. He knows this.

D’s hand tightens in his hair, sparks cascading down York’s scalp. His other hand nudges York’s lips as D unzips his jeans, pulling his underwear down. Tasting sweat and faint musk, York kisses the silky skin of D’s cock. He licks along its warm length, dragging his tongue over the head, and D gasps, his fingers in York’s hair twitching.

Want pulses in York’s gut, his erection swelling. After a few more passes with York’s tongue, D is fully erect, and York parts his lips to take D into his mouth. It feels _right,_ better than his fingers, and York’s eyelids flutter shut as he sucks on the head. D rolls his hips, a tight, controlled movement, and York breathes in through his nose and takes him in deeper.

Holding onto D’s thighs to steady himself, York settles into a rhythm, pushing in to the edge of his gag reflex and pulling back until the head of D’s cock rests hot and heavy on his tongue. D breathes heavier, and his hand comes down to cup the back of York’s head, tapping his neck while holding him gently in place.

York gazes up at D, lips still stretched around his dick, saliva pooling in the corners of his mouth. _Can you hold it?_ D signs.

For D, he can do anything. York slides down further until it threatens to choke him and he has to stop with a muffled gasp. Eyes glittering, cheeks flushed, D smooths back York’s hair approvingly. A moan bubbles up in York, _tell me I’m doing right, tell me I’m good,_ and he manages another fraction of an inch.

 _You are so close,_ signs D, his hands shaking slightly. _Can you take it all the way?_

 _Yes,_ insists York’s throbbing dick, and York pushes forward again until he chokes. His stomach jumps and he digs his fingers into D, but York breathes hard through his nose and masters himself, his nose pressed into the dark hair at D’s groin, the head of D’s cock nestled against the back of his throat. Tears in his eyes, his mouth stuffed full of D’s cock, York trembles and kneels before D in profane aching pleasure. D strokes his hair again, caresses his cheek in unspoken praise, and York closes his eyes as another wave of warmth sweeps over him, so potent he nearly comes untouched.

Softly, D taps his cheek, and York drags his eyes open. D’s cheeks are bright red now and his breathing labored, lips parted.

 _What do you need?_ D signs, and York wants to tell him, but he can’t, and he whines around D’s cock. D shivers, his thumb brushing under York’s jaw. It’s all so _much,_ and York rocks his hips helplessly, and his throat contracts and he can’t breathe, his chest heaving, but he holds out because that’s what D asked him to do –

A brief frown crosses D’s face and he nudges York’s head back, pulling out of his mouth, and gasps and coughs explode out of York, his eyes watering. D drops to his knees, fingers brushing over York’s face before he signs, _Are you okay?_

York coughs again and nods, wiping his mouth. His body pulses with want, energy tingling in his hands and groin, and he pushes his head back into D’s hand; guilt and disappointment that he couldn’t handle it after all swirl in his stomach. “I’m fine,” he rasps. “More than fine. D...”

The concern smooths out of D’s face and he smiles, rubbing his thumb over York’s cheekbone. _You did very well,_ he signs, and York shudders as the guilt bleeds out of him. _I thought it might be too much._

Never. York shakes his head vigorously and catches D’s thumb in his mouth, sliding his tongue over it. D whisper-laughs with barely a sound, his erection rosy and glistening between his thighs. Sliding off D’s thumb, York ducks his head to swallow his dick down again, but D catches York before he can get there, long fingers pressing firmly against his jaw. _On the bed._

 _God, yes, please,_ thinks York, and he hauls himself up onto the bed behind them as D strips his jeans off. Prowling forward, D eases York onto his back with a hand on his shoulder, and then spreads York’s knees. Exposed and vulnerable, York shivers, drawing D forward to kiss him again. Kissing him feels good, hot and slow like melting chocolate, the press and pull of D’s warm mouth against York’s tender lips, and York drags his hands down D’s sweaty back and grinds into him, he’s so hard, they’re both so hard –

D breaks off with a gasp, his hair hanging in York’s face, and slides the first two fingers on his left hand into York’s mouth again. Swirling his tongue around them, York gets them good and slicked up, D’s gaze locked on his.

Withdrawing his fingers, D nods approvingly, and York moans faintly and strains up into another kiss. As D cups the back of York’s neck with his other hand, he reaches down, trailing his wet fingers over York’s chest, stomach, the inner curve of his groin – York twitches and gasps, lips bumping into D’s – and slides them up against York’s rim. And pauses there, waiting.

“Please,” whispers York. He wants to come so badly, he’s going to die.

D dips down to kiss him again, and at the same time, his fingers press up and into York, easing inside. Groaning, York arches back into him, savoring the burn. He can tell that D’s trying to be patient, to take it slow, but York doesn’t want that and judging by the look in D’s eyes, he doesn’t either. “More,” York gasps, tilting his hips up so D’s finger slide in further. “Give it to me, D, please –”

Breathing harsh, D tips his forehead against York’s, and pulls his fingers out to grip York’s hip so he can get the right angle to enter. York leans up so he can grip the back of D’s neck, panting in sync with D, clenching and relaxing around him as he pushes in. It’s been years since he was last fucked (two years, in fact, with Tucker, in this very city) and he’d nearly forgotten the sweet unbearable ache of it, the way it demands his entire body.

D rolls his hips, thrusting experimentally, and York drops his head back onto the pillow with a groan. Two years since he was last fucked, before Russia, before Siktyakh…

To use his hands to sign, D has to sit back on his heels, and York arches his back, heat rippling through him at the change of angle. _What do you need?_ D signs, a definite tremor in his fingers.

Two years before Siktyakh and the hard drive that sits in D’s backpack, the hard drive that York knows the location of at all times. Two years of running and hiding and the blood of how many on his hands, and York reaches desperately for D. Tears blur his eyes, the overhead light blinding him – “Absolution,” York gasps.

Bracing himself on his elbows, D presses the side of his face to York’s and starts thrusting in earnest. Each pitch of his hips sends jolts of pleasure through York’s core, and York holds tight to him, panting. “York,” rasps D, in his ear, and York groans. “You feel so good –”

York keens, rocking up into D’s thrusts. “So good,” D croaks again, and his voice spirals down through York, _good, good, good,_ his touch on York’s skin, the heat of his body and breath. Liquid pleasure ripples through York and he gasps into D’s neck, kissing everywhere he can reach. With a sudden cry D snaps his hips, his fingers digging into York, warmth hitting York as D comes.

D’s fingers tighten in York’s hair, pulling hard, and white stars dance behind his eyes. Orgasm blooms through York in wave after wave, warm stickiness painting his chest as D holds him and pants and strokes York’s hair, _good, good, good…_

Head spinning, York collapses back into the bed, curling as close into D as he can. For a long few minutes, neither do more than lie still and breathe.

Eventually, York summons the energy to disengage from D and hold him close at a more comfortable angle, breathing in the lingering scents of sweat and sex as he tucks D’s head under his chin. Sighing softly, D wraps his arms around York’s waist, his tangled hair tickling York’s nose, and he rubs lazily at the back of York’s neck in a quiet imitation of his previous caresses. _Good,_ echoes in the back of York’s mind, warm and gentle.

Outside, a car siren wails, and York starts, looking up reflexively until it moves into the distance. With a sigh, York relaxes back into the scratchy bed cover, his arms tightening around D. They can’t take you, he vows. They won’t.

They’ll have to kill me first.


	14. Marseilles, Present Day

They make it back into their hotel room in a ragged procession, Tucker staggering against Wash as his head pounds. “Easy there,” mutters Wash, a firm arm around Tucker’s waist. 

“I’m good,” says Tucker, but if he leans into Wash a little more than necessary, well – he’s earned it. Wash deposits Tucker onto the one chair in the room as Carolina hurries in after them, heading straight to her medic bag. York disappears into the bathroom with D in his arms, the door shutting behind them; last to enter is Tex, slowly closing the door as she scans the room warily, blood streaking her cheek. 

With a groan, Wash flops down onto one of the beds. “You okay?” says Carolina, drawing on her blue gloves.

“Yeah,” sighs Wash, lying on his back with eyes closed. “Just can’t believe we made it.” 

Tucker leans back in the chair, resting his aching head. “Me neither.” 

“How about you, ‘Lina?” asks Wash as she passes him. “You okay?”

Setting her medic bag down on the bed, Carolina sits on the arm of Tucker’s chair, smiling slightly. “Yeah, I’m fine, just a little bruised.” But the look she turns on Tucker is worried, a line wrinkling between her eyebrows. “How’s your head?”

“Hurts like a bitch,” Tucker admits. 

Tex, who has been pacing like a caged wolf, abruptly announces, “I’m going to scout our perimeter,” and turns to the door. 

“Wait!” says Carolina, sitting up straight. “Let me look at your cheek.” 

Eyebrows raised in a question, Tex touches her face and glances down in surprise at the blood smearing her fingers. “It’s fine,” she says brusquely. “Face wounds bleed,” and before Carolina can protest she’s out the door, rifle still slung across her back. 

Carolina clicks her tongue, annoyed. “Hey,” says Tucker quietly, touching her arm. “She’ll be fine.”

“It’s going to get infected,” Carolina grumbles, but she turns back to Tucker with a sigh. “Tex said you hit your head?” she asks, scrutinizing him.

“Got kicked, but yeah.” Careful not to touch, Tucker points at the right side of his head where the throbbing is worst. He’s taken first aid courses, he knows where this is going, but he manages a smile and a wink and says, “Kiss it better?”

Carolina snorts, but the corners of her mouth lift, so that’s good enough for Tucker. Reaching in her bag, she pulls out a small flashlight and shines it into Tucker’s left eye, making him wince. “Any nausea, dizziness... did you pass out?”

“I puked, but I think that was from the knee to the balls, too,” says Tucker. Eyes still closed, Wash winces sympathetically. 

Worried, Carolina purses her lips, checking Tucker’s right eye before sitting back. “Well, we’ll keep an eye on it,” she sighs, and rips open an antiseptic wipe pack. “Let me clean that up.” 

Tucker holds still as she dabs at the abrasion on his head, hissing in through his teeth when the antiseptic stings in the open cuts. Carolina’s face stays taught with concentration; this close Tucker can see the fine lines around her eyes, the brown roots in her hair. She smells faintly of gunpowder and sweat. Loving Carolina is unlike loving any other woman Tucker’s known; loving Carolina is like coming in from the cold to a roaring fire, like the exhilaration of an early-morning run, like the slow burn of a good whiskey. Loving Carolina is like knowing everything’s going to be okay. Maybe it shows on his face, because Carolina smiles hesitantly and says, “What?” 

“Nothing.” If Carolina wants to do this later, then Tucker can do this later. But he smiles back at her, gently rubbing his thumb over her inner arm. A muffled hiss of running water starts in the bathroom. 

Carolina’s smile deepens into something warm and knowing, and Tucker’s stomach contracts happily. “Okay,” she says, taping a gauze pad over the wound. “There’s an ice pack in the kit, if you want to ice this. It’ll help with the swelling.” 

“Yeah, maybe.” Tucker figures he’ll pop a couple ibuprofen and be done with it. 

“Any other injuries?” 

Shrugging, Tucker says, “Gonna be hella sore tomorrow, but... nah. Not really.” He pauses, adds, “Are you sure you’re fine?”

Wryly, Carolina says, “I know how to take a fall.” 

“You were amazing,” says Wash from the bed. “I hope you know that. Total badass.”

Carolina looks down with a half-laugh, stripping off her gloves. “Thanks,” she says, wadding them in a ball and tossing them into the trash (“Kobe,” whispers Tucker, unable to help himself). “What about you, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I was just sitting in the car the whole time.” Wash sits up with a sigh, leaning back on his hands. “Didn’t even get nicked.” 

Tucker takes the two Advil and water bottle Carolina hands him, swallowing down the pills as Carolina settles beside Wash on the bed; when Wash rubs lightly at her back, she relaxes into his hand, shoulders slumping. Gingerly, Tucker gets up and pads over, sinking down on Carolina’s other side. Her knee bumps amiably against his thigh. 

The water running in the bathroom stops, and a few moments later a damp-haired York exits, hurrying over to his luggage. “You guys need me?” Carolina asks, as he rummages through the bag.

York pauses, a folded t-shirt in his hands. “Give us fifteen minutes,” he says, and grabs a pair of sweatpants.

“Sure,” says Carolina. “What will you need?” but he’s already vanished back inside the bathroom. 

York seemed stressed, but holding it together. “I don’t think it’ll be that bad,” murmurs Tucker, as Wash lies back down, one hand still resting on Carolina’s back.

“Mm.” Carolina stares out at nothing ahead of her and says flatly, “I killed someone.” 

Behind her back, Tucker exchanges a worried glance with Wash. “You did,” says Wash carefully. “But he would have killed Tex if you didn’t.” 

“Oh, I know,” says Carolina. “I know I had to. But that doesn’t change the fact that I did. That’s on me now, forever.” She frowns, and her voice shakes slightly as she says, “I can’t go back from that.” 

Wash frowns helplessly up at her, still gently caressing her back, and for the first time Tucker wonders if Wash has killed someone too. “Look at it this way,” Tucker says, putting a hand on Carolina’s shoulder. “You killed him, but you saved Tex’s life. So your balance is still at zero.” 

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” laughs Carolina sadly, but she puts her hand over Tucker’s and squeezes it. 

“It is, I’m an expert.” Tucker gives her a little shake, considers going in for a cheek kiss. Maybe not right now. “You know what my expert opinion is?” 

“What?” 

“That we all need a nap.” 

Wash laughs, eyes closed again. “I can get behind that.”

“No more than an hour at a time, though,” orders Carolina, pointing at Tucker. “For you.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Lying down, Tucker urges Carolina down beside him; she sighs but acquiesces, settling on her back. Curling on his side so he can see both her and Wash, Tucker rests his aching head on his arm. He’s starting to get comfortable, the painkillers kicking in and his eyelids drifting shut, when the room door opens. Looking up and over his shoulder, Tucker meets Tex’s puzzled gaze. “What are y’all doing?” she asks. 

“Nap time,” says Tucker. Wash looks like he’s already asleep. 

Tex raises her eyebrows but doesn’t comment, closing the door behind her as she unslings her rifle. At some point she washed the blood and grit off her face. “I should probably check on York and Delta,” murmurs Carolina, sitting up and getting off the bed, Wash’s hand trailing after her. Grabbing her bag, Carolina goes to the bathroom door and raps it gently with her knuckles, saying, “York? Delta? Can I come in?” The door opens, she steps in, and it closes behind her. 

Apparently Tex thinks nap time is a good idea too, because she settles on the chair with her booted heels on the desk, rifle in her lap, and closes her eyes with a sigh. Of course she thinks it’s a good idea. If there’s one thing Tucker’s learned from Junior, it’s the importance of nap time. 

Wash, not asleep after all, turns so he’s facing Tucker. “How’s your head feeling?” Wash asks quietly.

“Still hurts,” says Tucker, and pouts. “Carolina wouldn’t kiss it better.” 

Snorting, Wash murmurs, “You want me to do that?”

“Yeah.” 

Wash smirks and leans forward so he can kiss Tucker on the forehead. As he draws back, Tucker tilts his head up, catching Wash’s lips in a surprise kiss. Short and sweet, what with Tex being in the room. But it warms Tucker through all the same.

Chuckling quietly, Wash flops back down. His dark eyes go wide with sudden realization. “I  _proposed_ ,” he says. “To Carolina.” 

“Yeah, you did.” Tucker watches him intently for any signs of regret; if Wash takes it back Tucker’s gonna punch him. “Do you wish you hadn’t?”

“No! No.” A smile flashes across Wash’s face like the sun between clouds before he groans, “It’s just not what I was planning, at  _all_.” 

Snorting, Tucker shifts a little closer to him, looping an arm around his waist. “Yeah, that happens sometimes.”

Wash’s frown turns worried. “She didn’t actually say yes.” 

“Dude, she made out with you, I’m pretty sure that counts as yes.” Tucker sweeps a hand over Wash’s ribs, watching his eyes close as he sighs. “Now shut the fuck up and go to sleep.” 

\--

Cradling D to his chest, ignoring the burn of his injured ribs, York shoulders the bathroom door open as the rest of the group makes their way into the room and nudges the light switch on. The door swings back shut behind them and then it’s just him and D in this little bathroom with weirdly salmon walls. Setting D down on the closed toilet seat, York crouches in front of him, keeping a careful grip on his hands. “D,” he says. “Hey. Talk to me. We’re okay.” 

D raises his head, tangled hair hanging limply, and manages a very tiny smile. The cuts and bruises on his face make York’s heart ache. Sliding his hands free, D signs slowly,  _They have the hard drive._

“I know, I know. Don’t worry about that, babe, we’ll take care of it, okay?” says York, rubbing D’s knee comfortingly. It’s a sign of how worn down D is that he doesn’t argue. “We got it.” 

Blinking tiredly, D nods. His fingers fumble against York’s, slowly linking through them. Dark brown-red stains not only the leg of his jeans but the front of his gray Henley shirt, and York swallows hard. “D,” he says softly. “Sweetheart, baby, tell me where they hurt you.” 

Another brief, weary smile tweaks D’s lips.  _Aside from the obvious?_

York doesn’t have an answer for that, just looks up at him sadly. Everything inside him wails to  _fix this, make it better,_ and though he’s relieved enough to have D back he could cry, York hates himself for losing him at all. Sitting up straight, D slowly grabs the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head, baring his torso and the multitude of crisscrossing half-healed slashes on his stomach.

Breathless rage sweeps over York, so potent he can barely see. “Knives?” he asks, once he can talk again.

D nods.  _Gates likes knives. At first the goal was to get me to talk, but when they realized I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, he started to get bored._ Raising his arm, D points to a cluster of red welts on the tender skin of his inner bicep.  _Taser. Also to get me to talk._

Balling his shaking hands into fists, York takes a deep breath through his nose and pushes that anger deep down, locking it up until he needs it again. “I’ll kill him,” he vows. “Both of them.” 

With unsteady hands, D unzips his jeans, and York helps pull them off, D wincing as dried blood peels away from his skin. The stab wound in his thigh is so crusted over it’s difficult to assess, but it looks wide, and possibly infected. As the jeans fall to the floor, York pulling them off D’s feet, more red welts on D’s shins are revealed: long, thin marks, as if he’s been whipped.  _Cane,_  signs D, wearing only his black boxer briefs.  _Another failed attempt at making me speak._

“Jesus,” whispers York, and leans in until his forehead presses against D’s bony knee. This close he stinks of sweat and blood and York doesn’t care, he wants to hold him close and never, ever, let go. Instead York cups a hand behind D’s calf, squeezing gently, and groans. 

A light touch on his cheek, tapping twice. York raises his head, tears stinging his eyes.  _I was not molested or sexually assaulted,_ D signs, his expression blank.  _Ortez_ _was insistent on that. I was fed twice a day. Aside from brief periods to relieve myself, I was kept bound to a chair._

The anger swells up in York again and he swallows it down. “Okay,” he says, voice shaking. “Anything else?” 

D pauses, adds hesitantly,  _They took my glasses._

Slowly, like ice cracking, D’s face crumples, and he hunches in on himself, shoulders jerking with silent sobs. York takes his hands and D grips them back tight enough to hurt, his teeth bared in an aching grimace. “I got you,” says York gently, desperately, “I’m here, sweetheart, I’m...” He can’t say it’s okay, because it’s  _not._ Carefully, he pulls D down to the floor and against his chest, leaning back against the side of the bathtub as D curls up in his lap, shaking. York kisses his filthy hair and wraps both arms around D tight.

Gradually, D trembles and stills, his face pressed to the crook between York’s neck and shoulder, his long pale legs awkwardly splayed out. York rubs gently at the back of D’s neck, suggests softly, “How about a shower?”

D sighs long and slow.  _That would be good,_  he signs, fingers tired and clumsy.

“Okay.” Twisting around, York reaches behind him to turn the faucet on; it takes a few minutes of fumbling to switch to the showerhead, and to figure out the temperature controls. D’s already stripped off his underwear, and York helps him to his feet and into the shower, D hanging onto the curtain rod for support. “You good?”

Nodding, D signs,  _Warmer._

York sticks a hand into the water stream, testing. “It’s pretty warm already.” D narrows his eyes. “Okay, okay,” says York, and turns the hot water up until it’s just shy of boiling. “Like this?”

Eyes closing, D sighs and ducks his head into the shower, his hair going wet and lank. Rusty red swirls around his feet as the dried blood washes off. 

He seems steady enough standing, so York lets go of D long enough to take his own clothes off before stepping into the shower behind him. Steaming water hits York’s skin, and he winces. “Okay?” he asks, putting his hands on D’s hips.

D takes one of his hands, signs,  _Better,_  into his palm. 

“Good.” York kisses the knobby back of D’s neck, reaches around him for the little complementary bottle of hotel shampoo. He tries to be gentle but quick as he washes D’s mane, not wanting to keep him on his feet too long. Careful to keep soap suds out of D’s face, York rinses his hair out, smooths conditioner through it, and rinses again until his black hair is smooth and slicked back. 

Sighing, D leans back into York, still bracing himself against the shower wall to keep weight off his injured leg. Steam fills the bathroom, the air like a tropical greenhouse. York soaps up a washcloth and starts wiping D down, careful over each dip and indent of his body. When he gets to the cuts on D’s stomach, D winces, hissing, and York freezes. “Sorry,” he says, his own hair dripping.

 _It’s fine. The soap just stings,_  D signs.  _Keep going._

York obeys, scrubbing gentle circles over D’s front, down his legs (being extremely delicate around the thigh wound), and back up his back. By the time he’s reasonably sure D’s clean, D leans into him so fully York has to hold him up, D’s legs shaking with effort. “Okay,” breathes York, lowering D down to sit in the tub. He has to squirm around D to switch the water flow from showerhead to faucet, stoppering the tub drain. “I’ll go get you some clothes, you just chill here, okay?”

D nods; his hand finds York’s wrist, pulling him in close enough for a kiss. It’s a brief, light touch, York not wanting to worry the split in D’s lower lip, but it soothes York all the same. “Be right back,” he promises, stepping out of the steadily-filling tub. 

 _You better,_  D signs, and leans back with his head resting on the edge of the bathtub, his eyes closed. Now that he’s clean, the vivid pink and red and maroon of his injuries look even harsher. York towels himself off hurriedly, getting dressed before he opens the bathroom door and darts out into the cold clear air of the hotel room. 

Tex is gone; Tucker, Wash, and Carolina sit sprawled comfortably together on one of the beds, eyes following York as he grabs his duffel bag and starts searching through it for clean clothes. “You guys need anything?” Carolina asks. 

York pauses, considering. It’s the stab wound in D’s leg that worries him the most. “Give us fifteen minutes,” he decides. Enough time to get D out of the tub, dry, and dressed. 

“Sure,” says Carolina, as York retrieves a clean t-shirt, sweatpants, and boxers, and heads back to the bathroom with his prize. “What will you –”

After his brief time outside, the bathroom feels even more humid, the mirrors steamed up and the walls glistening with condensation. D lies in the same position York left him, skin sallow, one hand hanging limply over the edge of the tub, his ribs moving faintly. He looks so drained that sudden alarm pricks York, and his voice comes out sharper than intended when he says, “Hey. D. Wake up.” 

D’s unbruised eye cracks open.  _I am right here,_  he signs sluggishly. 

“I know. I know. You just had me worried there, buddy,” huffs York, setting the folded clothes down on the sink counter. “Carolina’s gonna look you over, is that okay?” 

Eyes closed again, D nods.  _I suspect that means I need to get out of the tub._

“Only if you want to.” 

Groaning quietly, D levers himself upright, and York helps him out of the tub with a hand on his arm and another on his waist. Grabbing one of the thin hotel towels, York starts drying him off, careful and slow; but despite his best efforts, bright crimson blood spots the white fabric. The whole time, D leans against York, silent and apparently content to be gently manhandled. Eventually York gets the clean underwear on D and decides against the rest of the clothes until his wounds are bandaged. “Hey,” York says again, as D sways on his feet. “I know, you’re tired, you just gotta stay awake a little longer, okay?” 

Face pressed into York’s neck, D grabs his hand and signs something into his hand, but his finger movements are so clumsy York can’t tell what it is. “I know, babe, I know,” says York, and kisses his temple. “Just a little while longer.” 

He sits them back down on the bathroom floor, ignoring the dampness of the towel laid down in lieu of a bathmat. A few minutes later, there’s a knock at the bathroom door, and Carolina says, “York? Delta? Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” says York. He’d get up, but D is curled up in his lap again, practically asleep. “Come on in.” 

Carolina slips inside, closing the door behind her with her blue med bag in hand; when she sees D in York’s arms, she blinks in soft confusion. “Hey,” she says quietly, crouching by them. “Delta.” 

Blinking groggily, D pushes away from York, dragging one hand through his damp hair.  _Hello, cousin,_ he signs.

“Hello.” Carolina manages a smile, but as she takes in the extent of D’s injuries, pulling on blue latex gloves, fire burns in her green eyes. “I’m just going to patch you up, okay?” 

 _I suppose that would be preferable,_  D signs. 

York keeps an arm around D as Carolina cleans and bandages, deliberate and methodical, from wound to wound, starting with his face. When she gets to the knifework on D’s stomach, her face hardens, and judging by the way her cheek moves, she’s chewing on it. “So it was torture,” she says. 

 _They were determined to get information._ D snorts quietly and adds with a brief flash of energy,  _Their methods were clumsy and ill-considered._

York can’t help a brief guilty laugh, ducking his face into D’s shoulder. “Thank God you’re one of the good guys, is all I’m saying,” Carolina mutters, dabbing at D’s stomach with an antiseptic pad. He stiffens and winces, arm braced against York’s chest.

The worst is the leg wound. Now that it’s clean, it doesn’t look as infected as York thought it was, but it’s deep, penetrating far into muscle. “This needs stitches,” says Carolina. “I have a topical numbing gel, but that’s it.” 

Chin resting on D’s shoulder, York snakes an arm around his waist, careful not to touch the gauze bandages taped to him.  _Go ahead,_  signs D. 

“Okay.” Carolina pulls a tube out of her bag, squeezes clear gel onto her gloved fingers and starts applying it around the wound. A soft breath hisses through D’s teeth, and York grabs his hand. “We’ll give this about ten minutes to take effect.” 

As they wait, she readies her tools – needle, forceps, sutures. York watches, ignoring the sick pulse in his stomach, idly combing through the tangles in D’s hair. Eventually, Carolina touches D’s thigh near the wound experimentally. “Can you feel this?” 

Shrugging, he signs,  _A little._

“Well, that’s better than nothing.” Using what looks like a squeeze bottle, Carolina starts flushing out the wound, sending red and clear trickles down D’s leg and onto the coral floor tiles. D winces, his fingers contracting around York’s. “I’ll try to go fast.” Threading the needle, Carolina moves in a little closer, and gets to work.

York doesn’t watch the metal piercing D’s skin, because it makes his stomach turn; instead, he touches his forehead to D’s temple and hangs onto his hand, even when D’s grip tightens so painfully York can feel the bones in his hand grinding together. “You’re doing great,” he murmurs in D’s ear, as D gasps and shakes. “You’re doing so great, sweetheart, it’s almost over, just hang in there...” 

At last, Carolina straightens with a sigh, pushing her bangs out of her face. “All done,” she says, sympathetic, and blots away the blood on D’s leg. “Now you can nap. When’s the last time you had something to drink? Anything to eat?”

Breathing hard, D slumps back in York’s arms.  _Water and a protein bar,_  he signs, as Carolina smooths a bandage over his stitches.  _This morning._

Carolina frowns. “Well, you should get something more in your system than that. I’ll see what the hotel kitchen has.”

She starts to stand when D reaches out, catching her arm.  _Thank you,_  he signs. 

Carolina’s face twists like she might cry, but only for a moment. “It’s okay,” she says softly. “I just wish I could have done more.” 

\--

Tucker doesn’t get more than about half an hour of dozing off before Carolina reemerges from the bathroom, peeling off bloody gloves. She glances at Tex, still napping in the chair with her gun in her lap, and crosses over to Wash and Tucker. “How is he?” asks Tucker. 

Frowning angrily, Carolina drops her bag on the floor. “Worn out, they did a number on him.” Tex’s eyes stay closed, but she looks too tense to be asleep. “It was torture.” 

“Oof,” says Wash, frowning in sympathy. “But he’ll be okay…?”

Sighing heavily, Carolina flops down on the bed, jostling Tucker. “Yeah, he’ll be fine,” she says. “He’s a Church, we’re used to abuse.” Tex's face twitches. 

The bathroom door opens again, and York and Delta come out, Delta with an arm slung over York’s shoulders as York helps him walk. Delta looks a million times better, dressed in clean clothes, the blood and grime washed off him. As York helps him to the other bed, Tex sits up, spinning around in her chair. “You look better,” she says. 

D laughs, an almost-silent whispery sound, and signs something that makes Tex frown, puzzled. “He says he feels better,” translates York. 

“Have you told her yet?” asks Tex, nodding towards Carolina. This time D frowns, cocking his head at her. “About – you know –”

“About Dad’s Russian science experiment?” sighs Carolina, rubbing her forehead. “Yeah. I know. I’ve known for a while.” Both Tex and D's eyes widen in surprise.

“About – wait, what?” Tucker exchanges a confused glance with Wash, who props himself up on his elbows. “Your dad’s involved in all this?”

Tex snorts. “Involved? He’s a major player. A lot of the testing at МАРВЕЛ is based off of his theories.” She frowns at Carolina, saying, “How long have you known?” 

Leaning back on her hands, her shoulder bumping against Tucker’s, Carolina says, “Since the stroke. I’ve been taking care of him, I’ve had to go through his research, handle his correspondence… I couldn’t not know.” 

“But you never said anything,” says Wash, sounding quietly betrayed. 

“What would the point be?” Carolina leans around Tucker to speak directly to Wash. “He can’t do any more research. He’s an old, sick man, his mind is going. Better to leave him be.” 

“I didn’t – I didn’t mean about arresting him, I just meant – you could have told me. You didn’t have to carry that on your own.” 

Carolina tilts her head at Wash, looking like she’s close to tears, and Tucker rubs a hand over her knee. Over at the desk, Tex watches both of them with an odd expression. “I’m sorry,” she says.

Mastering herself, Carolina shrugs and says, “It’s okay, we all knew Dad was going to end up on the wrong end of an oversight committee someday –”

“No, I’m sorry I ran.” Tex sets her rifle aside on the desk, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. “I should have taken you with me, I should have waited for you, I should have gone back… But I was a coward, and I ran away at the first chance I got, and I never stopped running.” She clears her throat, eyes burning. “I’m sorry.” 

Carolina lets out a heavy breath. “An apology doesn’t just fix everything, you know,” she says shakily. 

“Yeah.” Tex smiles, shamefaced. “But I’ve got to start somewhere, right?” 

For a long moment, Carolina considers Tex; Tucker’s breath catches in his throat. And then in an abrupt movement Carolina slides off the bed, crossing over to Tex and pulling her out of the chair and into a hug. 

A startled laugh bursts out of Tex, and she hugs Carolina back, arms wrapping around her shoulders. Warmth fills Tucker’s heart as Tex kisses the top of Carolina’s head and says, “Love you, ‘Lina.” 

“Love you, too,” says Carolina. “I’m still mad at you, though.” 

“I know,” laughs Tex, releasing her. 

Looking over his shoulder, Tucker checks York and Delta; they’re curled up on the bed together, D bundled in a sweatshirt of York’s and with his head on York’s shoulder. He’s out like a light. When York catches Tucker’s gaze, he smiles wryly over the top of D’s head. “He’s had a long day,” York half-whispers. 

No kidding. 

\--

They need the hard drive back. Once they have that, York has a contact in Cairo who can smuggle him and Delta to Tehran. They just have to get on a boat out of Marseilles.

Tex’s tracker doesn't work anymore; "lost connection," it says. Most likely the mercenaries found and destroyed it. But they have a way to contact Ortez – Delta knows his phone number. “Gates dialed Ortez in front of him,” York translates for the group. “By observing his fingers, D figured out Ortez’s phone number. So we can just call him.”

So they do. A vote is held to decide who negotiates with Ortez. York is disqualified for being too emotionally involved, Tex for being too brusque. It falls to Tucker to make the phone call. “Are we sure about this?” he says, one of Tex’s burner phones in his hand. “Isn’t Wash, like, trained to negotiate with terrorists…?” 

Seated next to him on the bed, Wash says, “I’ve actually never worked a counterterrorism unit.”

Tucker frowns incredulously at him. “You know what I mean.” 

“You’re good at talking to people.” York leans forward from his perch on the desk, Delta sitting on the chair beside him with his shoulder nudging York’s thigh. “You’re good at defusing tension. It’s the natural choice.” 

The compliment throws Tucker for a few seconds and he stares at York, who half-smiles back. “Well, yeah, of course I am,” Tucker boasts, channeling his charm. “There’s a reason my Tindr nickname is Golden Tongue. Well, two reasons. Bow-chicka-wow-wow.” 

Tex throws her head back and cackles. “I missed you, Tucker.” Tucker winks at her, despite the way his insides churn with nerves. “Shall we?” 

“Yeahhh.” Tucker turns over the black phone in his hand, takes a deep breath. Wash on his left, Carolina on his right. Tex, York, and Delta at the desk across from him. No big deal, just talking to a wanted criminal mercenary to negotiate a meeting. What could go wrong?

Tucker swallows hard as the phone dials, slow and repeated. Stay calm, he tells himself. Be the superhero Junior thinks you are. 

Ring, ring. Tucker’s sure the call’s going to go to voicemail when Ortez picks up. “Hello?” he says, in a deep gravelly voice. Tucker can’t lie, that’s a little hot. 

“Hey, man,” says Tucker. First step, make sure he’s talking to who he thinks he’s talking to. “Is this Samuel Ortez?”

Slow and suspicious, Ortez says, “Yes.” 

“Great. I’m not going to give you my name, but I think you know who I am.” Tucker leans back, aware of everyone watching and listening intently, but not looking at any of them. “Outside of the apartment building yesterday. I’m the black guy. Ring any bells?”

“I know who you are, Lavernius Tucker.” 

Cold alarm prickles down Tucker’s spine. “How do you know that?” he demands.

Silence. 

“Listen,” says Tucker. “We’re two practical guys. Let’s get down to the important shit.” He pauses for a response; there isn’t one, but Tucker imagines the quiet on the other end is attentive. “We both have something the other person wants.” 

“You mean Elahi and Church,” rumbles Ortez. 

“Yeah. And you have the hard drive.” Tucker clears his throat, crossing his legs under him. “So maybe we can work something out.” 

Another long pause, during which Tucker’s heart thuds hollowly in his ears. Slowly, Ortez says, “Like what?”

Tucker takes a deep breath. “Look,” he says. “I didn’t sign up for this, all the guns and knives and shit. I just thought I was helping a buddy out, I didn’t think I’d be risking my life.” 

“I see.” Ortez’s voice turns thoughtful. “You want a way out.” 

“I just want to go back home and see my kid, you know?” Tucker doesn’t even have to lie about that one. “I don’t care who gets the damn hard drive.” 

At this point he can practically feel York’s eyes burning into him, but Tucker ignores him, focuses on Ortez saying, “So you’re proposing some kind of trade.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I assume you want money.” 

“That’d be nice, yeah. It’s not cheap being a single dad.” 

“How much?” Ortez’s flat tone doesn’t give anything away, and Tucker knows better than to assume he’s buying this just because he’s asking questions.

Tucker deliberates. On his left, Wash leans back on his hands, staring at nothing and frowning slightly in concentration; Carolina radiates tension on his right. “One hundred thousand,” Tucker says. “Actually, nah, fuck that. Five hundred thousand. You have that, right?” Play it stupid, play it cocky, and Ortez will underestimate him. 

“Maybe.” A hint of amusement colors Ortez’s voice. “Three hundred thousand.” 

“That’s all Elahi and Church are worth to you? Jesus, I thought this was like a million-dollar hard drive or something.” 

“ _How_ much did he ask for?” sneers a voice in the background – Gates. “Christ, not even a cool million –”

The amusement is stronger as Ortez says, “Five hundred thousand it is, then.” 

“And bring the hard drive.” 

“… Why?”

Tucker scoffs, “So I know you actually have it and I’m not handing over my friends for no reason.” 

This bit’s the hardest sell, and Tucker waits for Ortez’s answer with his heart in his throat – “All right,” rumbles Ortez. 

As they hash out a location to meet (abandoned factory, as close to the docks as Tucker could manage), adrenaline shivers over Tucker. It’s working. It’s  _working._  Holy fucking shit, Ortez actually believes him – “Great,” he says, phone pressed to his ear. “Yeah. You better not bail on me, or I’m in deep fucking shit.” 

The indignation behind Ortez’s voice is strong enough that Tucker believes it. “I will not.” 

“Great.” Tucker pauses,  unsure of how to end the conversation; Ortez solves it for him by hanging up. 

Letting out a deep breath, Tucker drops the phone, its screen greasy from his cheek, and looks around at everyone else. “We’re on,” he says. “Abandoned factory by the docks. Tomorrow at seven a.m.” 

Tex grins at him, pride warming her eyes. “Knew you could do it, Tucker,” she says. 

But York frowns, and says slowly, “Tucker, those things you said… you were lying, right?” 

D raises an incredulous eyebrow, and he’s not the only one. “What?” protests Tucker. “Of course I was –”The look York gives him is half desperate, half exasperated. “I mean – yeah, of course I want to go home and see Junior, but…” Tucker looks straight into York’s eyes, says quietly, “I’d never sell you guys out. Never.” 

A little relieved laugh slips out of York, and his shoulders relax. “I know,” he says. “You just sounded really, really convincing.” 

Grinning, Tucker leans back against Carolina, who smirks and bumps her shoulder back into his. “Dude, of course I did. I’m the motherfucking bard.” 

\--

“It’s a trap,” says Gates. “You know it’s a trap, right? Sammy.  _Tell_ me you know it’s a trap –”

“Of course it’s a trap.” This doesn’t bother Sam the way it seems to worry Gates. “Why else would they contact us?” 

Grimacing, Gates massages his thigh above the bullet wound. Stripped down to cargo pants and white tank top, he shifts restlessly on the hotel bed, bones protruding in his shoulders and narrow chest. “So we’re not going, right?” 

Sam gazes back at him unflinchingly. “We’re going,” groans Gates, his head falling back. “Of course we are. Elahi and Church probably won’t even actually  _be_  there.”

“No, but Tucker will.” Folding his arms, Sam leans back in his chair. “And I suspect he will talk easier than Church. Or be equally in need of rescuing.” 

\--

Ocean fog fills the air with chill and damp, droplets clinging to Tucker’s eyelashes. Sticking his cold hands in his jacket pockets, Tucker clears his throat and peers through the gray gloom for any approaching movement in the factory parking lot. The building towers over him, damp concrete with boarded windows and door; Tucker keeps his back close to it. 

He can’t see anyone else, but he’s not alone. Tex in her sniper’s perch on the factory roof, Delta beside her, the others ready just behind the door. All they need to do is grab Ortez and Gates, get the hard drive, put York and Delta on their boat, and – that’s it. It’s done. 

At the far end of the lot, a forest green sedan pulls in. Tucker holds his breath as they make a slow circle and park, yards and yards away. “What’s happening?” hisses York, over the communicator. 

“They’re here,” mutters Tucker. “They’re parking.”

Tucker’s heart pounds, each beat echoing, the tips of his ears and nose numb with cold. The c windows are too dark to see movement inside, and no one comes out. 

“Come on,” sings Tex under her breath, “come on...” 

Steam puffs out of the exhaust pipe as the car idles. Bouncing slightly to keep warm, Tucker watches, waiting. Still nothing. Jesus, what are these guys waiting for –

Tex shouts, “Tucker, on your left –”

Tucker ducks as something dark swings towards him and he drives his shoulder into it and the man grunts and they both topple to the pavement, grappling furiously. Get on top, get on top, Tucker thinks frantically, and scrambles over him and kicks a leg away and drives his forearm into the man’s throat as he yanks his gun out of his waistband with a sweaty hand. “I’d stay put,” Tucker pants, putting the muzzle to the man’s temple (finger off the trigger, safety on). “I wasn’t joking when I said I wanted to see my kid.” 

Breathing hard, the man – presumably Ortez – glares up at Tucker. He has a broad face and a heavy jaw, his brown skin weathered, his black hair drawn back in a ponytail with streaks of gray at his temples. An X-shaped scar marks his face. “I didn’t think you were,” he rumbles.

“Don’t move!” yells Gates, advancing on them with pistol drawn. Behind him, the car door hangs open. “Hands in the air!”

“I got him,” says Tex, smug, and a red laser dot appears on Gates’ chest.

He doesn’t seem to notice, still glaring at Tucker with both black-gloved hands on his gun. “Dude,” says Tucker. “Look down.” 

Gates scoffs, “I’m not falling for that –” The red dot dances over his hands, and his eyes go wide. “Aw,  _fuck._ ” Sighing, he rolls his eyes and raises his hands in the air, calling out, “Okay, okay! You got us. Good job, you.” 

Shifting so he straddles Ortez’s chest, Tucker keeps the gun to his temple and orders, “Hands behind your head.” Ortez complies warily, eyes fixed on Tucker.

“What’re you gonna do, arrest us?” sneers Gates.

“Actually, yes.” Wash steps out from behind the factory door, badge in hand. “Agent Washington, FBI.” 

The mockery drains out of Gates’ expression and his eyes glitter dangerously. He looks like a cornered rat, Tucker thinks. “Oh, so now the suits get involved,” says Gates, upper lip curling. “Cleaning up the mess Uncle Sam made? Or are you just here for this?” He reaches behind his back and Tucker tenses, the red dot back on Gates’ chest, but all he pulls out is a dark gray metal rectangle, with a wire wrapped around it. “You want it?” 

“York,” hisses Carolina over the comm, “stop it,  _get back here_  –”

Exasperated, Ortez growls, “You  _brought_  it?” 

Gates retorts, “I wasn’t leaving it in the hotel –”

The door rattles as York flings it open, darting past Wash and Tucker towards Gates. “York!” yells Tucker, looking after him –

An iron hand grabs Tucker’s wrist, yanking it out from under him, scraping his palm. The gun skids away and Tucker falls forward and Ortez bucks his hips and throws Tucker to the side, looming over him between his legs. The air knocked out of him, Tucker grunts and draws his knees back before kicking Ortez as hard as he possibly can.

Ortez lets out an “oof!” as he lands heavy on his butt, collapsing backwards. Tucker scrambles to his feet as York sprint towards Gates, drawing his gun –

Tucker sees it in an eternity of a split second. 

York running at Gates, with grim death in his rigid jaw and his pistol in hand. 

Gates, with the whites of his wild eyes showing and his teeth bared and his skin pale in fear.

The black leather glove creasing as Gates tightens his finger on the trigger –

Tucker can’t get to Gates in time. But he launches himself at York, and gunfire cracks loud and red-hot pain hits Tucker in the ribs as he collides with York, sending them both tumbling to the ground. 

Groaning, Tucker rolls off York, trying to breathe. York fires and Gates falls, hit simultaneously through the heart and by a headshot from above. “Got him,” says Tex, grim. “Tucker, talk to me –”

Each breath hurts Tucker, warm blood rapidly seeping through his shirt, pooling under his back. “I think,” he gasps, “I might be hit –”

With shouting and scuffles and flying red hair, Carolina and Wash tackle Locus back to the ground, pinning him. “Samuel Ortez, I am arresting you under suspicion of murder, kidnapping, and battery and assault,” pants Wash, cuffing him. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law –”

“Tucker!” York throws himself to his knees by Tucker, pressing a hand to his side where the blood wells deepest, and Tucker shouts and arches his back. “Hey, hey, hang on, I got you, it’s all right –”

Groaning, Tucker lets his head fall back to the pavement, stars swimming across his vision. York crouches over him, worry etched on his stupid, handsome face that bears scars old and new. “Why did you do that?” York says.

Tucker struggles for air and manages the only answer that makes sense. “Old time’s sake.” 

“Tucker!” yells Tex as she races towards him, Delta limping behind her. Tucker tries to focus back on York but it’s so hard, everything’s getting darker, he can’t get enough air in his lungs... 

Warm hands cup Tucker’s face, York leaning in close. “No, no, no,” whispers York past the roaring in Tucker’s ears, “Tucker, no, come on, man, don’t do this –”

Don’t do what, Tucker wants to say, but he can’t make words. He can’t breathe. Why can’t he breathe.

Blackness claims him.


	15. Marseilles - Los Angeles, Present Day

Tucker wakes in semi-darkness to the sound of ventilation and steady beeping, something pinching his inner arm. This isn’t a surprise; he’s been in and out of consciousness all day since the first time he woke up in the hospital with a blood transfusion hooked into him and Carolina shouting at a nurse in English and the nurse shouting back in French. 

What _does_ surprise him is HOLY SHIT there’s someone in here – oh, it’s just York. “Jesus,” mumbles Tucker, slumping back into the bed as his heart monitor beeps frantically. “You gotta stop doing that.”

York, silhouetted against the window with the night sky behind him, laughs shamefacedly. “Sorry.”

Narrowing his eyes at him, Tucker says, “Why are you still in France? How did you get in here?” 

“I didn’t want to leave until I had a chance to talk to you. We’re okay for now.” York approaches slowly; he’s dressed in pale blue scrubs. “I snuck in.” 

“Where’s Delta?” 

The corners of York’s mouth curl up. “Waiting somewhere nearby.” 

“What, you can’t tell me?” Tucker teases weakly. 

Smiling, York pulls up a chair and sits beside Tucker, leaning his elbows on his knees. “You saved my life,” he says quietly. “Thank you.” 

“Dude, don’t worry about it,” mutters Tucker, fiddling with his plastic bracelet. The hospital blanket is a pale blue-grey, slightly scratchy. His side where the bullet pierced him hurts like a motherfucker. “It’s not a big –” 

York laughs softly. “ _Tucker._ ” 

A slow grin spreads over Tucker’s face. “Okay, yeah, it's a big deal. Guess I’m officially a hero now.” 

“You sure are.” York gently taps his fist into Tucker’s knee. “Hey, listen. I wanted to say. I know it’s been a while since – since what we had. But it’s not...” York stops, frustrated, searching for words. “I’m sorry for how things ended.” 

Tucker exhales in a whoosh. “Dude, that wasn’t all on you,” he says. “We both kind of fucked it up.” 

“Yeah. Yeah. I know. But still.” York rubs at the back of his head. “And we can’t go back. I wouldn’t if I could. But I just wanted... I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m trying to say.” He laughs again, lines creasing in his bronze skin, and leans back in his chair. “I broke in here for this.” 

Brief flashes of memory hit Tucker – golden sunlight, warm lips on his, carefree laughter at two a.m. – and nostalgia twists him before mellowing away. Reaching over, Tucker grabs York’s hand and holds it tight, and York smiles gratefully at him. “It’s okay,” says Tucker. “We _were_ pretty good together, huh?” 

“We were fucking phenomenal.” York squeezes his hand before letting go. “Thank you, again. Not just for saving me, but... for everything. For coming out here in the first place. We wouldn’t have made it without you.” 

“Nah, man, you had Tex, you would have been fine –” 

“It’s not the same,” says York, quiet and sincere. He leans forward, locking his gaze with Tucker’s. “You haven’t killed anyone. Tex and D and I have, Wash has, Carolina has, but you haven’t. That’s important -” 

"Wait, who has Wash killed -" 

" _Tucker._ " York's voice, though quiet, rings with sincerity. "It matters. I need you to know that." 

Swallowing hard, Tucker nods; his heart throbs softly. "But seriously, though," he says, mastering himself. "Who did Wash kill? How do you know?" 

York rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he says, standing. “Of course I know.” 

“Dude, not fair -” protests Tucker. 

“I’d say ask him, but it’s classified.” York smirks before extending a hand down to Tucker; heart suddenly swelling, Tucker grasps it firmly, looking back up at him. “See you around, Tucker. Say hi to Junior for me.” 

“Take care of yourself,” says Tucker, giving his hand one final squeeze. “I mean it. Or I’ll sic Carolina on you.” 

Mock-shuddering, York says, “At least send Tex, she’ll bring whiskey.” 

Tucker releases his hand. “Deal.” 

Hands in his pockets, York backs around the bed, lingering until he has to turn towards the door. With a wry smile, he waves goodbye, and then leaves, and the door shuts behind him. 

\-- 

Pulling his jacket on over the scrubs, York slips out a back door of the hospital, into an alleyway lined with biohazard containers, lit with bright white streetlamps that cast harsh shadows into the night. A shape emerges from one of the shadows and York reaches for his gun instinctively before he realizes it’s Carolina. “Oh,” says York, with a huff of relief. “It’s you.” 

She stops in front of him, hands in the pockets of her blue jacket, her hair drawn back in a messy bun. “So you’re off.” 

“Yeah.” D’s waiting in the car, just around the corner, and their boat is at the docks, and Maryam awaits them in Cairo. “It’ll be over soon.” 

“Mm.” Carolina searches his face, frowning slightly. He can see traces of D in her bright green eyes and the shape of her jaw. “Travel safe.” 

“Will do.” York nods at her, starts to walk away. 

Abruptly, Carolina says, “You’re good for him.” 

York pauses in the chill of the damp ocean air. “Who? D?” 

“Yeah.” Tilting her head, Carolina bites her lip, still considering him. “He trusts you. I haven’t – I haven’t ever really seen him like that, with anyone. Not even family.” She laughs shortly. “Especially not family.” 

“He’s a good guy,” says York quietly. “And you, and Tex – you’re good people, too. Both of you.” 

A brief smile brightens Carolina’s face, and she ducks her head. “I’m trying, at least.” 

“Well, it’s working.” 

He’s about to turn and leave again when Carolina says, “I’m sorry. For blaming you for Tex. I was angry, and scared, that she was gone, and I took it out on you. But you didn’t deserve it.” 

Relief and heartache twist in York’s chest, as Carolina stands with straight spine and shoulders, white light gleaming on her hair and the side of her face. “Thank you,” he says softly. 

“Take care of D,” she says. “Stay safe.” 

“I will,” York promises. “I want an invite to the wedding.” 

Carolina snorts. “Go on, get out of here.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Pulling his hood up over his head, York paces out into the street, just another nurse heading home from a late shift. As he rounds the corner, D’s car comes into view, dark and nondescript. And waiting behind the wheel is D, who catches York’s eye and nods. York waits for a couple minutes; once he’s satisfied the coast is clear, he trots over, opens the door, and slides into the passenger seat. “Hey, babe,” says York. “Ready?” 

But D leans over and slides a hand behind York’s head, pulling him in for a sound kiss. _Thank you,_ he signs, once they break apart. _For rescuing me._

“Don’t – don’t thank me,” says York, a hand on D’s thigh. “You don’t need to.” 

_I know._ D smirks, turning back to the wheel. _But I decided I would anyway._

York laughs, sudden tension releasing like a wire snapping. “Love you, buddy.” 

A flush colors D’s cheeks, a soft smile tugging on his lips. _Love you, too,_ he signs, and turns the key in the ignition, and they speed off into the night. 

\-- 

“Dad!” yells Junior, abandoning the side of the flight attendant to run to Tucker, his rolling backpack clattering behind him. 

Grinning, Tucker gingerly crouches, behind the baggage claim gates with the other people waiting for arrivals, and opens his arms wide. The smile on Junior’s face lights up the entire damn airport, and several people laugh and "awww" as Junior barrels right into Tucker’s arms. “Hey, kiddo,” laughs Tucker, rocking back to catch him. “Oof – easy on the ribs –” 

Junior steps back, scrutinizing him. “You hurt your head,” he says accusingly. 

“Just a tap, don’t worry about it.” Tucker puts his hands on Junior’s shoulders. “I told you, I’m a superhero.” 

Snorting, Junior says, “Sure, Dad.” 

“What, you don’t believe me?” says Tucker, standing (oh that hurts). “I saved somebody’s _life._ Ask Aunt Carolina or Uncle Wash.” 

Junior rolls his eyes, but he sticks closer to Tucker’s side than he would normally as they walk out of the terminal. “I’m starving,” Tucker says, as they wait to cross the river of honking cars flowing sluggishly through LAX. “Do you want lunch?” 

“ _Yes._ ” 

“Cool.” Tucker smiles down at Junior, at his dark eyes, at the perfect curve of his head, at his Spiderman backpack. “Let’s get In-in-Out.” 


	16. Napa Valley, Eighteen Months Later

Dusty golden sunlight streams through the oak tree boughs, the rolling hills of Northern California colored olive and bronze. Clasping his hands in front of him, Tucker nudges Wash with his elbow, careful not to crease either of their gray suits. “Ready?” he whispers.

Wash grins, his eyes fixed expectantly on the aisle that stretches before them, back past rows of guests in their wedding finery. “You have no idea,” he whispers back.

The lilting violin music swells: Sigma, another Church cousin, his dark eyebrows drawn together with a fiery intensity at odds with the dulcet melody he plays. At the far end of the aisle, Carolina turns the pavilion corner and steps out into the sunlight, and she takes Tucker’s goddamn breath away.

White satin clings to her breasts and waist, falls heavy from her hips. Her hair, braided, pinned up, and artfully tousled, shines like copper in the sunlight, and a sheer veil trails behind her. Aquamarine gems glitter at her ears and neck, nearly as bright as her eyes, and she smiles at Wash with the warmth of a noonday sun.

Misty-eyed, Wash beams back as Carolina paces towards him, slow enough that Dr. Church, who leans heavily on her arm, can keep up. Tucker basks in Carolina’s radiance, his heart swelling, and he casts a glance over at Tex in front of the other bridesmaids, sharp in her tailored aqua suit jacket and white pants and stilettos, her blonde hair slicked back, fondness and pride evident in her smile. Behind Tucker, Leonard Jr., one of the other three groomsmen, watches with a similar expression; the Church clan not only fills their side of the seating but spills over into the seats across the aisle, dwarfing Wash’s family.

At last Carolina reaches the end of the aisle, helping Dr. Church into his seat before stepping up under the wedding canopy opposite Wash, handing her bouquet to Tex. Dust motes dance in the sunbeams around her as she takes Wash’s hands, the rabbi stepping forward and saying, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Join me now in celebrating the union of David and Carolina...”

\--

“There you are!” says Tex, breathless, slinging an arm over Tucker’s shoulders. She’s down to her shirtsleeves now, like Tucker, and has abandoned her stilettos as well. “Where’s the happy couple? I have something for them.”

Tucker scans the dance floor under the pavilion, trying to pick out Wash and Carolina from the dancing couples. The sun has set, and the light from the hanging lanterns is soft and warm. Is that Wash’s grandma boogying with a man twenty years her junior...? Yup. It is. Get it, Granny. “There,” says Tucker, pointing to one of the tables where Wash and Carolina are making conversation with another old lady. “Think they need rescuing?”

Squinting, Tex says, “God, yes, that’s Great-Aunt Ruth and she’s... well. You know. Come on.” Grabbing Tucker’s hand, Tex pulls him across the dance floor to the tables, weaving through tipsy guests. Tucker, pleasantly buzzed and sweating slightly, laughs and lets himself be pulled. As they come up to the table, Tex snakes an arm around Carolina’s waist. “Hey, guys,” she says. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Allison!” The old lady at the table has a large floral hat and a Southern accent like melting butter, and she grins up at Tex like a shark. “Now when is it your turn? It’s about time you settled down with a nice young man...”

Tex attempts a smile that looks more like a grimace. “Seriously, I need to talk to you, it’s important,” she mutters to Carolina.

Looking concerned, Carolina nods once before turning back to Great-Aunt Ruth, bending down to clasp her hands. “Thank you for coming,” she says. “And for the lovely gift.”

“Of course, of course.” Great-Aunt Ruth graces her with a kiss on the cheek (or rather, she purses her lips and bumps her cheek against Carolina’s), and Tucker raises his eyebrows at Wash over Carolina’s back. Wash rolls his eyes. “Best wishes to both of you, my dear.”

Tex practically drags Carolina off to a corner of the pavilion, Wash and Tucker hurrying after. “ _Thank_ you,” says Carolina the second they’re out of earshot of Great-Aunt Ruth, her skirts rustling. “She was already hinting about great-grandchildren.”

“And by hinting, I mean offering suggestions for decorating the nursery,” says Wash dryly. Tex makes a gagging noise. “Is there something actually wrong, or was that just a rescue?”

“Nothing’s wrong, but I have something to show you.” Tex pulls her phone out of her pocket; the other three huddle behind her, Tucker pressed up against Wash’s side with his chin on Tex’s shoulder. She pulls up a video on her phone and hits play. “Here.”

York and Delta wave happily up from the screen, beaming. York’s hair is considerably longer, Delta’s pulled back into a messy knot, and scruff covers both their jaws. A neon green triangle stud gleams in York’s left earlobe, and he and Delta wear rain-slicked parkas. Misty gray clouds cover the sky behind them. “Congratulations, Wash and Carolina!” says York. “We’re sorry we can’t be there with you to celebrate, but they still won’t let us back into the United States. Best wishes to both of you, and I hope you have a long, happy life together ahead!” Delta makes a heart shape with his hands. The video ends.

“Awww,” says Carolina, smiling. “Did they send you that?”

“Yeah, just now.” There’s a hint of wistfulness in Tex’s eyes as she returns the phone to her pocket. “No idea where they are.”

“They look pretty okay,” says Tucker in relief. Unharmed and happy, at least, which is more than enough for him. Especially considering the last he heard from them was an extremely brief confirmation from Delta after they leaked the stolen info that he and York were still safe in Tehran but couldn’t risk further contact. He sighs, giddy lightness bursting in him like champagne bubbles.

Washs laces his fingers through Carolina’s, eyes warm. “Want to grab a piece of cake before they pack it up?”

“God, yes,” says Carolina, and strides off with him towards the kitchen.

Tex watches them go with her arms folded, soft pride on her face again. “Where are you going next?” asks Tucker.

Sighing, Tex considers, her painted lips pursed slightly. “Not sure,” she says. “I hear Istanbul’s nice this time of year. Or maybe Hanoi.” She winks at Tucker. “Wanna come with?”

Tucker laughs. “As much as that’s a sweet offer, I’m good, thanks. Got a kid, and all that. Besides,” and he nods in the direction Wash and Carolina went. “I’ve got them.”

A knowing warmth lights Tex’s eyes. “Yes,” she says. “You do.”  

\--

The night air shimmers faintly around Tucker, alcohol warming his blood as he walks down the hotel hallway to Wash and Carolina’s suite. Leaning against the doorframe, he lightly raps his knuckles against the door. “Hey, guys,” he says. “It’s me. Tucker.”

The door opens and Tucker nearly stumbles in before steadying himself. Wash stands in the doorway, his hair tousled, lipstick smudged on his face, his tie undone and shirt half-opened. Before Tucker can properly take in this glorious sight, Wash seizes him and pulls him into a resounding kiss. “You got started without me,” says Tucker breathlessly, once Wash releases him.

Wash shrugs, eyes dark with arousal. “We got tired of waiting,” he says, and draws Tucker back into the room with him.

The bridal suite has cream-painted walls, furnished with dark wood and pale blue upholstery and potted orchids. On the bed, Carolina lounges in a pile of white satin, her hair tumbling down around her shoulders. “What took you so long?”

“Just on the phone with Junior.” This is Junior’s first time being on his own overnight; Tucker has to keep reminding himself that he’s almost twelve, he’ll be just fine. Crossing over, Tucker sinks down onto the bed beside Carolina and kisses her, slow and sweet like honey. “Sorry.”

“Mm,” Carolina hums, eyes still closed. “I forgive you.”

The bed dips as Wash sits behind Tucker, arms sliding around his waist. “I’m not sure if I do,” Wash says, and nips at Tucker’s neck. One of his hands strays lower, over Tucker’s thigh. “I think there might have to be some sort of penalty _._ ”

Tucker chuckles, leaning back into Wash; his hands are warm, his chest is warm, his breath is warm. Everything is warm. “Are you going to take me in, Officer?”

“It’s _Agent_ ,” says Wash, low in Tucker’s ear, and Tucker shivers inside with delight. Wash’s hand tightens on his hip, and Carolina rises on her knees, crawling forward into Tucker’s space. Her skin shimmers; is that her makeup, or Tucker’s buzz, or just the way she is?

“Holy shit, I just realized,” Tucker says, “how have we not done sexy cop roleplay yet –”

Carolina kisses him, her lips pressing into his like molten wax, her hands braced against his hips. Sighing into her, Tucker cups her face in his hands, she feels like silk and smells like honey –

Arms wrapping tight around Tucker, Wash pulls him back up against his chest and slides his hands up under Tucker’s shirt. Wash’s chest presses against Tucker’s back and Carolina draws in even closer until Tucker is firmly sandwiched between the two of them, and this is it, Tucker could die right here and he’d be happy. But when he grabs Carolina around the waist to tug her onto his lap, fabric scrunches under his hands and she pauses. “Help me get this dress off,” she murmurs.

Tucker doesn’t need to be told twice. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, reaching around her so he can unhook the back of her dress while kissing along her neck, Wash trailing his fingers up Tucker’s side. One tiny clasp comes undone under his fingers, and then another, and another, and – holy shit, how many fastenings _are_ there on this dress?

“You done yet?” laughs Wash.

“Look, man, there’s a lot –”

Sighing, Carolina draws back and gets off the bed, shimmying out of the dress. In the soft lamplight, her toned skin gleams, and her muscles ripple as she strips off the shapewear she had underneath. Tucker leans back into Wash to gaze in appreciation as Carolina walks across the room to hang her dress up in the wardrobe. Her ass is round and rosy, adorned with only a lace thong, and Tucker wants to sink his teeth into it like a peach. Or like cake. Peach-cake.

Wash’s wandering hands quest further up Tucker’s chest, tweaking his nipples, and Tucker whines, his head falling back onto Wash’s shoulder. “God, yeah,” Tucker pants happily, as Wash presses blistering kisses on his neck, his thumbs rubbing over Tucker. Each gentle tug and twist reaches deeper into Tucker until he can’t breathe, his entire core stretched tight with longing. Wash breathes harsh and heavy in his ear, his thigh pressed against Tucker’s.

The bed shifts again and Tucker opens his eyes to Carolina sitting and watching him with a tigress’ smile, red-gold curls caressing her bare collarbone. Her cheeks and breasts are flushed, and she reaches forward to unbutton Tucker’s shirt, her fingers sliding over his skin as she spreads the fine fabric open, baring his chest. “What do you think, Wash?” she says. “You hold him down while I ride his face?”

“You guys are gonna kill me,” Tucker groans.

Wash twists Tucker’s nipples again, making him shudder and arch his back. “Actually I was hoping I could eat you out,” he says, with a flick of his thumbs that makes Tucker squirm. “It is our wedding night, after all…”

“All right,” Carolina laughs, and kisses Tucker again. Her breasts brush against his chest, skin like silk, nipples firm, and she palms at Tucker’s groin with a firm but gentle hand. Breathless under the double assault, Tucker slides his hands over her hips, around the swell of her ass, and squeezes firm muscle. “Maybe some other time, then,” Carolina murmurs into Tucker’s mouth, and his stomach clenches with promise.

Heart pounding, Tucker whispers, “We better.” He leans forward, out of Wash’s arms and into Carolina’s, pulling her onto his lap. She straddles his hips, her wet heat riding against his groin, and Tucker sinks deep into her kiss, the warmth of her, the weight of her, _Carolina_ –

Fingers trailing over Tucker’s skin, Wash shifts around until he can get an arm between Tucker and Carolina. His hand dips down between Carolina’s thighs, and she gasps. “Atta girl,” breathes Tucker, his forehead pressed to hers as she pants and rocks into Wash’s hand. “God, you’re gorgeous, so damn hot…”

Wash has stripped off his shirt and jacket, sweat gleaming faintly over the sculpted contours of his back. When he kisses Tucker it’s with rough-edged urgency, his tongue insistent, his teeth digging into Tucker’s lips. “Wash,” pants Carolina, her thighs tightening around Tucker’s. “ _Wash._ ”

Tearing himself away from Tucker, Wash says, “Don’t worry, I got you,” and in one smooth move flips Carolina onto her back, spreading her knees. Carolina laughs, like bells chiming, and arches her back. And then Wash dives in, his dark head between her pale thighs, and the laugh turns into a squeal.

For a little while Tucker is content just to watch as Carolina closes her eyes and tilts her head back, watch the long smooth curves of her throat and ribs, the way her breasts move as she gasps for air, how her legs curl around Wash, how his hands caress over her thighs, the line of his back, his gray pants tight around his ass, how his hips roll into the mattress. Watching two gorgeous people fuck in front of him, better than any porno.

But his swelling cock insists Tucker do more than watch, and Tucker agrees, taking off his clothes. Retrieving condoms and lube from where he knows Wash stashes them in his luggage, Tucker settles himself back on the bed beside Carolina, rolling a condom onto himself. From the high scrape of her moans and the way her hands clench and unclench on the rumpled bedspread, she’s close to coming, and Tucker turns her face towards his so he can lean down and kiss her. Carolina keens faintly, her lips hot.

Wash surfaces with a gasp and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, grinning. “How’re you doing, babe?”

Scoffing breathlessly, Carolina pushes one bare foot against the bulge in his pants, and Wash bites his lip, eyes wide and dark. “Hurry up and finish the job.”

“What,” he manages, “you don’t want to take your time –”

“If he won’t, I will,” says Tucker, and swings a leg over Carolina so he’s on top of her, kissing her again. She rakes her hands down his back and Tucker grinds into her and he can’t think, just feel, his whole body warm and trembling.

Firm hands and thighs press up behind him – Wash. “Come on, Tucker,” groans Carolina, arching her hips up into him, and Tucker eases into her as her legs hook around his hips. It’s so _much,_ intimate heat and pressure and he kisses her frantically, their lips brushing over each other like painting a canvas.

Slick fingers slide inside Tucker’s ass and he yelps, pushing into Carolina, who gasps and clutches at him. “Jesus, Wash,” he pants.

“Sorry.” Wash does not sound sorry at all as he fingers deeper inside Tucker, easing, stretching, and Tucker closes his eyes and rolls his hips and Carolina sighs underneath him. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

Breathing hard, Tucker clenches and shivers and hangs onto the edge of orgasm as Carolina kisses him hungrily and Wash twists his fingers inside him. “God – yeah, _fuck_ , Wash, go, do it right now –”

Wash leans over and laughs in Tucker’s ear. “You sure?”

“ _Yes,_ Jesus Christ –”

The slow, steady push of Wash into Tucker wrings a moan out of him, and Carolina gasps happily and tugs him down for another kiss, her legs tightening around his hips and drawing him in. Tucker is consumed, inside and out, sublimated by heat until he couldn’t tell where he ends and Carolina and Wash begin, their gasps fill his ears and their touch covers his skin and they move together in a steady pulse, faster, faster, faster, until Tucker’s stomach tightens and he comes in waves so overwhelming and sweet that he cries out. Carolina clenches and shivers around him, her orgasm silent except for one aching sigh.

As Wash rocks desperately into Tucker, his breathing comes harsher and quicker, and Carolina laughs and wraps her arms around Tucker as they rock together. “Hah,” pants Tucker, his body buzzing with aftershocks, his forehead pressed to Carolina’s damp neck. “Wash, God, Wash…” Tucker arches his hips back up into Wash’s thrust and Wash jerks and comes with a moan, his fingers digging into Tucker’s sides.

They slump together in a sexed-out, sweaty pile, Tucker nestled comfortably between Carolina and Wash. “Hot damn,” he sighs blissfully, eyes closed. “You guys are awesome, you know that, right?”

Carolina laughs, twining her legs through his, and kisses Tucker before leaning over him to kiss Wash. “You say that every time we have sex.”

“That’s because it’s _true,_ ” Tucker says. Sighing in deep contentment, Wash flops back down behind Tucker, spooning him. He’s still so warm, and Carolina is warm, and when she reaches back to pull the throw blanket over all three of them, the glow envelops Tucker. He could drift away on that glow, forever, and know what when he comes back, Wash and Carolina will still be there.

So drift he does.


End file.
